Becoming Fickle
by Butterfly Conlon
Summary: My first story, and it has everything in it that I now hate. A blatant Mary Sue, poor plot developement, and sucky writing! Go to my other stories instead!!!!!!
1. Prologue

Note from Author: Okay, in one more way is the author reflective of the title. So, here's the deal. I was going to take the chapters down and do major surgery on them because there is a LOT of stuff that I cringe when I read because it is so vague and I am a slave for detail. So, I will keep all the original chapters up plus the new one that I am working on. But, I am also working on another version of Becoming Fickle. Yeah, it will stick to the same story line but some things will be changed to that the story flows better and the drama is more intense and the love scenes are better (I love writing love scenes!) Although, due to some regulations about storied having the same titles, I can't post it here but it will be posted at fandomination.net. Confused? I am. Wondering why I am writing a different version? I don't know. I just think my writing has matured from when I first began this story and I don't want to slash it to bits. If you like this version, then you don't have to read the other. But if you are curious, then be my guest.  
  
Disclaimer: This here is my first ever published newsies fan fic. The only characters I own are Butterfly James/Sarah Sprites, Annie Murphy, Rylie and Horance Lyner, Jimmy Sprites, Skiddy Sniper, Ulf Uberstein, Jasper Johnson and anyone else that Disney does not own. Although I wish I could have them ::sigh:: Disney owns the newsies and I am not making any money off this whatsoever. So please read and review and review because I adore reviews (except flamers) so enjoy.  
  
  
  
BECOMING FICKLE  
  
PROLOGUE  
  
Summer--1897  
  
"Hey Spritzy!"  
  
"Hey, what?"  
  
"Why didn't da skel'tin cross da road?"  
  
"I don't know, Skiddy, why didn't 'e?"  
  
"Cause, 'e didn't have no guts, Spritzy! Git it? 'e didn't have no guts!"  
  
"D'ya know dat you'se a jackass, Skiddy?"  
  
"Comin' from you, Sarah Jean Louise Sprites, dat's a compliment."  
  
The day was hot in muggy in Queens that particular day in August as Sarah Sprites and Skiddy Sniper pushed through the crowds of pedestrians that jaywalked the street. The tatterd, filthy shirts of the two Queens newsies clung to their bodies from perspiration. Skiddy took his derby hat off and started fanning it in front of his face.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Spritzy, it shoah is a killer out tahday!" Skiddy cried, wiping his brow with his forearm.  
  
Sarah stopped walking and stood glaring at the overheated newsboy.  
  
"What?" Skiddy asked, holding her gaze.  
  
"Ya know how I hate it when people take da Lord's name in vain, ya dumbass!" she growled.  
  
Skiddy rolled his eyes as beads of sweat dripped down his brow. "So sahrry ta offend ya, Father Sprites! P'raps I shoahd rephrase da statement. Jimminy, Spritzy, it shoah is hot out tahday!"  
  
A lopsided grin formed over Sarah's mouth as she swatted Skiddy's hat from his grasp. "Ya know I love ya anyhow, Skiddy Snipah. Not ev'ryone can be poifict like me."  
  
"'ey, use ya own hat as a fan, Spritzy!" Skiddy whined.  
  
Sarah giggled. "I have ta use me own hat ta keep me dratted hair off my own neck."  
  
"Den cut it off. Keep da hat. I jist wanna git to da docks and have a well- desoived swim in the rivah," the newsie said.  
  
"I'se with ya, Skiddy, I'se with ya."  
  
Both newsies walked as fast as thier tired overheated bodies would allow them to the docks over looking the East River. Jimmy Sprites, leader of one of the two sections of Queens newsies, had planned for all his newsies to meet their after a long day of selling papes to swim in the chachoal grey waters.  
  
Sarah and Skiddy finally reached the docks to see that the majority of Jimmy's newsies had arrived already. Sarah left Skiddy's side for a moment to look for her brother. She found him tottering near the edge of the dock, kicking off his shoes.  
  
Sarah smiled and cupped her hands around her mouth. "HEY, SPRITES!"  
  
Jimmy scanned the newsies to see who had called his name. Only one person could have. "HEY, BUTTAHFLY!"  
  
Sarah's smile grew. "Awful wheathah we'se havin'! Too damn cold out!"  
  
Jimmy grinned. "I'se ready ta toin inta a Eskimo!"  
  
Jimmy turned and formed the position for a dive, but halted when one of his newsies cried, "What da we have here?"  
  
Jimmy turned and what he saw cast a scowl on his face. His younger sister shared in this scowl as she crept closer to Skiddy. "What da 'ell are dey doin here?"  
  
Skiddy shook his head, his gaze never leaving the intruders. "Looking foah a good ass-kickin', I'd wagah."  
  
It was true that Jimmy Sprites was the leader of the Queens newsies, but only one section. Unfortunatlly, his newsies were forced to share Queens with the lowliest and ruthless newsies in Queens, maybe even New York, history, the Lyner newsies. The Lyner newsies were co-controlled by brothers Horance and Rylie Lyner. Rylie was the brians of the Lyner newsies, being wirey thin and Horance the force of them, being built big and strong. Jimmy's newsies and the Lyners' had been feuding even before anyone could remember. This wasn't the first spat they had had with each other.  
  
Jimmy narrowed his eyes as Horance Lyner stood in front of him. "Ooh, whadda we have here?" he asked his newsies. "I t'ink dat da gorilla 'scaped from da zoo again. Nah, moicy me, it's just Horance Lynah!"  
  
Laughter rippled throughout the newsies as Horance stood, his face burning. "I'se gonna kill ya!" he bellowed, pulling back his arm with the intention to knock Jimmy out, but his brother Rylie stepped in front of him, blocking the punch. "Not yet, Horance," Rylie said to his brother.  
  
Rylie then turned to Jimmy. "Really, James Sprites, your wit astounds me."  
  
Sarah felt her face heat up. She hated the confrontations between the dratted Lyners and her brothers newsies. And she hated Rylie Lyner above all because he thought that just becuase he had a brain on his head he was superior above all else.  
  
Enough was enough. "And ya ugliness astounds me, Rylie Lynah!" she cried.  
  
Rylie's face burnt crimson. "What did you say?"  
  
"I said dat ya ugliness astounds me, Rylie Lynah! Want me ta repeat it?" Sarah screamed, her fury overtaking her.  
  
Rylie's eyes popped. "Why...you...bitch!" he hissed as he sprung forward to tackle her.  
  
Sarah screeched and sidestepped him.  
  
"Leave my sistah alone, ya son of a bitch!" Jimmy yelled, pouncing on Rylie.  
  
"Hornace!" Rylie yelped, begging his brother to come to his aid.  
  
Horance growled and sprung over to his brother, socking Jimmy hard in the back of the head. Jimmy let out a groan and fell off Rylie, who immediatly stood up.  
  
An eerie silence filled the air for a moment as the two sides just watched each other. It was Sarah that caused the chain reaction by screaming, "JIMMY!"  
  
At that, the two sides charged each other and began slamming one another down on the ground.  
  
Sarah ran over to her brother's side and knelt down. "Jimmy, get up!"  
  
He let out a groan.  
  
"Jimmy, please, please, get up!" Sarah cried.  
  
"Quit your pleading, you insignificant little bitch!" Rylie Lyner hissed from behind Sarah. She craned her neck around and gasped. Rylie swatted her hat off her head, letting her long blonde hair fall down her back, which he grabbed, making Sarah emit a high-pitched cry. He let go and she fell down on the wooden planks of a dock with a thud.  
  
She watched as Rylie loomed over Jimmy and gave him a swift kick in the stomach. Jimmy let out a load groan.  
  
"No!" Sarah screamed, hoisting herself off the ground and pouncing on Rylie's back.  
  
Rylie let out a cry of surprise as Sarah punched him hard in the left eye. But Rylie grapped hold of Sarah's upper arms, and flung her over his head, causing her to land on her back with a cry of agony.  
  
Although his sister was taken out, Jimmy was able to get up. Fury coursed through is body like never before as he saw what had happened to his baby sister. He let out a cry and pounced as Rylie Lyner, knocking him to the ground. Jimmy strattled him and started punching his face mercilessly.  
  
"Hor...ance!" Rylie gurggled through the blows.  
  
Hornace Lyner stopped the beating of a newsie (it was actually Skiddy) to come to his brother's aid. In one quick motion, he had Jimmy in a strong headlock in his powerful arm. He brought Jimmy to his feet. Rylie slowly stood up, his eyes filled with hate as his gaze fell upon his rival.  
  
"Whaddya want me ta do wit 'im, Ry?" Horance asked, making his grip on Jimmy tighter, causing the poor newsie's face to turn bright red from lack of air.  
  
"This, dear James Sprites, has happened one too many times. Too many confrontations between your newsies and mine. Now, do you think this would happen if their weren't two of us...say one?" he softly spoke.  
  
Jimmy's eyes widened as Rylie's hand slowly moved to the back pocket of his pants. He felt for the hilt of the knife and his grip tightened around it.  
  
Sarah's eyes fluttered open and a sudden rush of nausea over took her. A pool of blood trickled down her shirt from either a split of the lip and bloody nose. She propped herself up on her elbow. She was forgotten for the moment. The newsies were still at battle. Her gaze fell on a certain trio of newsies: the Lyner brothers and her brother.  
  
What happened next, although it took only a few quick seconds, would always be enblazoned in her mind.  
  
It started when she saw Rylie Lyner, standing, bloody, reach around to his back pocket for something. He slowly pulled out a sharp knife, of which he held the hilt tightly. She saw he brother began to squirm and try to get out of Rylie's head lock. She heard his pleas. She saw some of the other newsies stop the fighting to only watch in awe. And she watched as Rylie Lyner drove the blade with one quick thrust into her brother's heart.  
  
The docks sounds were shattered with Sarah's scream.  
  
Jimmy felt loose in Horance's grip. The latter let go of Jimmy and he fell to his knees, a horriffic sight with blood sputtering from his wound. Rylie stepped back as Jimmy fell to his stomach.  
  
"Noooo! Noooo! Nooooo!" Sarah screamed, trying to crawl over to her brother.  
  
Cries erupted from Jimmy's newsies as they tried to rush to his side, but the Lyner newsies overpowered them and held them back. All burst out into sobs.  
  
Sarah pulled herself to her brother's side. She got soaked in the puddle of blood that had collected under her now fallen brother. "No, no, no, no. Jimmy!" she cried.  
  
She felt a strong arm slid under her stomach and hoist her up. She stood facing Rylie Lyner, his eyes shimmering with an evil, and held in a deathlock by Horance Lyner.  
  
A smile crept over Rylie's face.  
  
Sarah could only stand looking into those awful eyes before her cries erupted. "Ya bastard! Ya goddamn bastard! How could ya do dat! You killed him! YOU KILLED HIM! You MURDERAH! You are going to hell!"  
  
A mocking smile spread over Rylie's lips. "Is that a promise, sweetheart?  
  
Sarah spit on Rylie's shoes.  
  
Rylie's face twisted in anger. "You bitch!"  
  
Horance's grip became tighter. "How would ya like ta stay wit me, toots?"  
  
Sarah squirmed out of his grap and kneeled him. Horance let out a string of oaths. But Rylie caught Sarah in his grasp. He knelt over and took the knife from Jimmy's corpse. Rylie put the knife to Sarah's throat.  
  
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you this very minute."  
  
In response, Sarah bit down hard on his fingers.  
  
"Ah!" Rylie howled in pain, clasping his injured finger.  
  
Sarah saw this as her chance, raced to the end of the dock, and dove off it with a spash into the exceedingly warm East River.  
  
She didn't look back as Rylie staggered to the end of the dock, battered and bruised, holding the very blade that killed her brother and shouted, the words ringing in her ears for years to come: "GOOD! SWIM AWAY, SARAH SPRITES! BUT IF YOU EVER COME BACK--EVER--I'LL KILL YOU IN A HEARTBEAT!" 


	2. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE Summer--1899  
  
"Ah, please, Warden, have a heart. Don't put me in dis dump!'  
  
"Ah, get in there!" Warden Snyder growled as he shoved Racetrack Higgens into the small room.  
  
Racetrack spun around in time to see the heavy door slam in his face. "Why you..."  
  
Race sighed and slowly turned around. Every boy in the room was staring at him.  
  
"What? Ain't 'cha nevah seen a poisin befoah?" Race asked.  
  
That caused most of the gazes to be averted from him.  
  
Race slowly made his way across the room and to the window barred with iron. He rested his forehead against the cool metal."Jack, please come and save me..."  
  
Race's thoughts were interupted by someone asking, "Is you a new one?"  
  
Race spun around. "Who asked?"  
  
A daft looking boy, skinny as a rail, with bulging watery green eyes, puffy red hair, and protruding front teeth raised his hand. "I was da one dat askeded if you is a new one?"  
  
"What, do I'se looks like a old one, ya fricking dumbass?" Race snapped, murmuring the last part under his breath.  
  
The daft looking boy's watery eyes crossed, as trying to comprehend this question. Race rolled his eyes and shook his head, feeling very exasperated- -and also very tired. Today had been a very hectic day. It had started off well, though. He had sold his papes rather quickly and with the money sprang down to Sheepshed Races where he bet on some of the horses. But then he started giving out his own odds, and people were flocking to him. The management of Sheepshed Races din't quite approve of this and called the bulls to say that someone was illegally gambeling. In a flash, Racetrack Higgins was in the House of Refuge.  
  
Race looked around for a spare bunk, but he really didn't want to be a bunkmate to any of the strange characters in this dump. Finally, he spotted a bunk that would have to do that was to the right to the window. A boy in a jet black clock was huddled in a corner on the top bunk, with the hood pulled over his indistinquishable face.  
  
Race walked over to the bunk. "Hey. D'ya mind if I take da bottom bunk?"  
  
There was no reply.  
  
Race shrugged. "I guess dat mean no," he said, sliding into the lower bunk.  
  
Once settled on the lumpy mattress, he fished his pockets to see what he carried. One cigar, one match, three cents, and a pack of cards was the tally. Racetrack considered playing a game of cards with the inhabitants of the room, but then thought against it.  
  
Race lay there for what seemed like hours until someone cried, "Food!"  
  
Race sat up to see bowls being distributed. When Racetrack got his, he realized just how hungry he was. He greedily took the wooden bowl and looked down, expecting to see a feast, but all he saw was a terribly unappetizing mixture of white and yellow mush.  
  
"What is this shit?" Race cried, throwing the bowl against the wall. The bowl splintered but the mush stayed adhered to the wall. Not dripping, just stuck.  
  
The daft boy looked incredulously at him. "How can you just waste the pretty gruel like that? Cook will be mad!"  
  
Racetrack looked around the room as the other boys greedily gobbled up the gruel. He felt sick. He layed back down on the bunk, sleep overtaking him, as he realized how much he longed to be in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House right now with the laughter of the other newsies echoing about him.  
  
A hard shake woke Racetrack up from a deep, dreamless sleep.Still another shake to the shoulder made him roll over on his back. He let his eyes adjust and in the dim light saw the outline of a black cape.  
  
"You!" he cried.  
  
"Shhh!" the boy hissed.  
  
"Whaddya want?" Race whispered.  
  
"Whaddya have?" the boy asked.  
  
"Whaddya mean whaddah I have?" Race asked.  
  
"Whaddya have in ya pockets?"  
  
"What's it to ya?"  
  
"Whaddya have?" the boy hissed.  
  
"Alright, alright!" Race grumbled. "I pack of cards, t'ree cents..."  
  
"Is dat it?"  
  
"No, dat ain't it, a match, a cigah..."  
  
"A cigah?" the boy grunted.  
  
"Yeah..." Race said warily.  
  
"Give it ta me," the boy commanded.  
  
"No way in hell am I givin' ya me last cigah..." Race cried.  
  
"Is a cigah bettah dan freedom?" the boy asked, interrupting Racetrack.  
  
"Freedom? How can ya give me freedom?"  
  
"Give me ya cigah."  
  
"Give me freedom!"  
  
"No freedom if ya don't give da cigah."  
  
"Alright, alright," Race grumbled, fishing for his last precious cigar. He handed it to the mysterious boy and he greedily snatched it. "Now freedom."  
  
"The match, too."  
  
"Fine, fine."  
  
Race gave the boy the match. The boy then put the cigar between to his lips, struck the match, and cupped his hand over the cigar, lighting it. The embers cast a faint glow in the room.  
  
Racetrack sat up. "I gave ya me last cigar now give me freedom."  
  
"Alright," the boy simply said.  
  
Race got off the bunk and watched as the cloaked boy crawled onto the top bunk and in a minute came down. Race followed him over to the barred window. "Ya kiddin' me, right? Dere's no way day we can escape from...here."  
  
Race watched incredulously in the light of the red embers as the boy pulled out a screwdriver and undid the bars to the window except one. "Wow...now how d'ya 'spect us ta git down?"  
  
Racetrack Higgens was once again astonished as the boy pulled out a line of bedsheets tied together. He tied one end to the lone bar and tossed the others out the window. He grabbed hold of the sheets and hoisted himself out the window and down the side of the window. The light of the cigar grew dimmer and dimmer in the dark night.  
  
Racetrack took one last look the room. All the boys were sleeping, some snoring. He let out a sigh and followed the mysterious boy out the window.  
  
Relief coursed through him as his feet touched the ground. He looked up at the House of Refuge. "G'bye Dump of Refuge!"  
  
Racetrack suddenly realized that the boy that had gave him freedom was nowhere in sight. He never got to say thank you. "Hey! Hey! Where are ya? Where didja go?" Race yelled.  
  
No reply.  
  
"Where didja go, ya crazy bastard?" Race cried.  
  
Racetrack finally realized his mistake, his voice had been too loud. He heard the guards of the House of Refuge start to stir. "Did you hear something, Ernie?"  
  
"I don't know, Will. We should go see."  
  
"Jesus Christ!" Race hissed, trying to find a place to hide. There were none in sight. And the guards were closing in on him.  
  
Racetrack in a state of fear when he felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder. 


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO  
  
Racetrack involuntarily bucked his body, preparing to utter a yell, when he felt the unknown assailant hurl themselves backwards. He released a queer noise, a hybrid of a wheeze and a whine. The impact on the ground caused a sharp stab in his abdomen and he felt the wind being abducted from his lungs.  
  
He could hear the guards' bellows coming closer and could see their bright lanterns quivering with their strides.  
  
A clammy hand found its way to his mouth and he felt the person shift from under him, their breathing heavy, pick up their right leg and place it over his as though to keep him still.  
  
He saw the dim features of the guards as they halted just a few paces from him and looked in every direction but in his. One guard stomped his foot bitterly and uttered a curse.  
  
The second muttered something in agreement. "Those goddamn kids. Did ya see what they did? Unscrewed the goddamn bars from the window!"  
  
The first vigorously nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but if we don't find 'em, Snydah's gonna have our heads on a plattah for dinnah."  
  
The second sighed. "Alright, they can't have gone far." He motioned with his lantern. "You look that way and I'll go this way."  
  
"Alright."  
  
Racetrack watched with bated breath and strained eyes as the crunch of the guards' boots and the illumination of their lanterns died away.  
  
His breath came out in one great exhalation.  
  
He then cried out in great surprise when he felt the body underneath his give a great buck, throwing his off them and to the ground, where he came up, sputtering dirt. The figure was in a sitting position, pulling the hood of their black cloak further over their face.  
  
Racetrack opened his mouth to say something, when the boy abruptly snapped his head towards him, his face pitch in the night. "What the fuck d'ya think ya where doin' back dere? Tryin' ta git anuddah lifetime at da Dump of Refuge?" his voice came out shaky and unnaturally high-pitched.  
  
Racetrack let his jaw drop as he stuttered like a fool. "I.I.YOU!"  
  
The boy tossed his head and Race could feel the boy regarding him with an air of haughtiness. "Yeah, it's me. Who da hell else d'ya t'ink it was? Snydah undah dis cloak?"  
  
"I don't know. I don't even know who ya are. I jist wanted ta say t'anks," Race said gratefully.  
  
"T'anks for what?" the boy snapped, beginning to rise to his feet.  
  
"For savin' me from dat dump."  
  
"I didn't save you. I saved me. You'se was jist a mistake."  
  
"All da same, t'anks," Race said, slowly standing, his gaze never leaving the boy in the cloak.  
  
The boy released a snort as he tossed his head. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't want anyone to end up like me."  
  
Racetrack knitted his brows together. "What do ya mean 'end up like you'?"  
  
The boy's bitter laugh sliced through the still air. "My life story, kid, is a long one and I have a life ta life. So's if ya don't mind, I would like to get outtah here befoah Snydah catches me again."  
  
And with that, the boy turned and quickly dashed around the corner of the House of Refuge. Racetrack stealthy followed, keeping low and glancing up at the looming structure every other second. He reached the front of the building to see the midnight form of the boy passing through the open gate.  
  
Silently, Race followed the former's footsteps He quickly slid between the creaking gates and raised his gaze to the House of Refuge one last time to see figure of the daft looking boy leaning out the window, carefully clutching the line of bedsheets in his grasp. His gaze was following the sheets and Racetrack could almost feel his raw emotions of craving to climb the line and disappear into the night. He fell back against the gate, entranced by the boy, until the boy suddenly raised his head, his gaze falling on Racetrack, his jaw dropping. "There! There! He's there!"  
  
Race appeared as though he had been shocked with a bolt of electricity for his whole body flinched violently and he jerked himself from the gates, as they released a cry of protest.  
  
He stumbled backwards, his brain suddenly overwhelmed with this impossible feeling of confusion. He heard the guards' bellows and saw their footsteps and their bobbing lanterns, as they grew closer. This queer feeling was as though his limbs were desperate to obey him, yet his mind was clouded with a fog, a fog that severed his psyche from his body.  
  
I can't go back to the House of Refuge! I can't! his mind screamed.  
  
The guards were only a few yards away now, the light blinding his vision, the yells tearing his ear drums apart.  
  
And then he felt the impossibly strong hand clamp down on his shoulder, roughly turning him around and pushing him forward. He stumbled, tripping over himself, yet he was pushed forward again and again. "Hurry!" a low voice hissed in his ear. He picked up his legs and blindly began to run as though in a fantastical dream, the hollers of the guards and the thudding of their heavy boots against the sidewalk audible tenfold to him. And then the bellows and the pounding slowly died away. And the only sounds were the soft thudding of the two pairs of feet pounding against the sidewalk and the grunts and wheezes and hisses and pushes of the person behind him.  
  
Racetrack abruptly halted, feeling as though his legs would shatter if he were to move another inch. Immediately, he was thrown forward, just nearly regaining his balance as his rescuer slammed into him, releasing a cry.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
This hust intensified Racetrack's wonders. If t  
  
he boy wouldn't say volentarily, he would say under command. Race saw a street light a few feet ahead. Without thinking, Race gave the boy a hard shove, sending him landing under the glare of the light. The boy let out a cry of pain.  
  
Race ran over to the boys side and knelt down, ripping the hood off his face. Race let out a loud cry. "You'se not a boy...you'se a goil!"  
  
It was true. A very pretty--yet at the moment very angry--girl sat glaring up at him with one blue eye and one green eye, her face heated from rage. Her long blonde hair hung about in a messy ponytail.  
  
"Now da truth is revealed. Da mysterious boy ain't a boy aftah all, 'e's a goil! Now let me go!" she snapped.  
  
Race knelt there, pinning the girl's arms to the ground. She was too curious a thing to let get away. "What were ya doin in da House of Refuge?"  
  
"I stole some damn food! I had me cloak on and dat stinky sonofabitch Snydah doesn't know a goose from a cow so he t'ought I was a boy!" she hissed, her odd eyes glittering harshly.  
  
"What's ya name?"  
  
"Why shoahd I tell a prick like you? I did my part of da deal. I gave ya freedom. Now gimme some freedom."  
  
"Tell me ya name and den I'll let ya go."  
  
"My name, my name is, uh....Buttahfly..."  
  
Racetrack let out a laugh. "Buttahfly? Now, sweet'haht, I know dat dat ain't ya real name."  
  
"It is too, ya prick! Buttahfly James."  
  
"Well, Buttahfly James, it's a pleashah ta make ya aquaintance." Race took one of her pinned hands and gently kissed the back of it. "I'se Racetrack."  
  
Butterfly stopped her squirming and looked at Racetrack with soft eyes.  
  
"Yeah, I know. I'se a lady man," he said concededly.  
  
Butterfly groaned and kneeled Racetrack in the stomach. He let out a moan and rolled over on his back, clasping his stomach. Butterfly stood up and walked down the dark street.  
  
"T'anks again!" Race wheezed.  
  
"You're welcome!" Butterfly called with out looking back.  
  
*********  
  
Sarah Sprites pulled the hood of her black cloak over her head and crept to the mouth of the dark alley. Flattened against the side, she peered out into the sunlight in front of her. What she saw across the street intrested her. A pizzarea had a basket of French bread sitting outside, warming in the sun. At that moment, Sarah was willing to risk her life for just a crumb, for she felt like she hadn't eaten for a million years.  
  
Sarah stared at the basket of bread, trying to brainstrom a plan in her head. But all she could think of was to cross the street, grab the bread, and run like hell. And she did just that.  
  
Pulling her hood lower over her brow, she sucked in a breath and darted out of the alley and over to the pizzarea, snatching a loaf of the bread. Without looking back, she ran like the devil was on her heels.  
  
She soon heard the cries of the owner in his deep Italian accent: "Hey, hey, hey come back here! Somebody stop that thief!"  
  
Sarah pushed the hood off her head and craned her neck around, her hair blowing behind her and a wicked grin on her face.  
  
She saw the small figure of the heavy Italian man standing in the doorway of his pizzarea, waving a wooden spoon in the air and yelling. She responded by taking a huge bite out of the bread.  
  
She was too far away now to see what his reaction was, so she ran to the opening to another alley and stopped to catch her breath. Clutching her side, she walked to the end of the dark alley, whick ended in a moldy redbrick wall. She found a pile of discarded, warped old crates and sat down on one.  
  
She held the bread to her nose and inhaled the delicious scent. "Um...finally real food!"  
  
Sarah brought the loaf to her mouth and prepared to take a bite when a blow across the side of her head knocked her off the crate and to the ground.  
  
Her whole body rocketed in pain. When she opened her eyes, at first she saw only bursts of stars, but then her eyes adjusted to a boy in tattered cloths hungerly leaning over the French bread that had fell to the floor.  
  
"Hey!" she weakly yelled.  
  
The boy glanced at her.  
  
"Hey!" she said, trying to pull herself up. "Dat's my bread!"  
  
The boy bent over, snatched up the bread, and took off down the alley.  
  
Maybe it was the overpowering hunger that drove her, but Sarah pulled herself up off the ground and persued the boy. Despite his speed, Sarah easily overtook him and brought him to the ground with a thud.  
  
She rolled him over onto his back and strattled his torso. Her multi colored eyes flashed in fury and her grip tightened on his collar.  
  
"What d'ya t'ink ya where doin' stealin' me food?" she growled.  
  
The boy looked up at her, and despite the black and blue marks that surrounded them, his ocean blue eyes flashed with a look of amazement.  
  
"What?" she hissed.  
  
His electric eyes scanned her face, and they widened.  
  
"Sarah Sprites?" 


	4. Chapter Three

CHAPTER FOUR  
  
Jack Kelly furiously pounded on the door to the washroom. "Are ya ready yet, Racetrack Higgins?"  
  
Race's voice answered over the sound of rushing water. "Yeah, Jack, I'se ready!"  
  
After a few more moments, the door to the washroom opened and Race appeared. "I'se ready, Cowboy. Are ya ready?"  
  
Jack rolled his eyes and leaned in the doorway to the bunkroom. "I t'ought ya said dat ya were ready."  
  
Racetrack finished lighting his cigar before he looked up at Jack. "I'se ready, Cowboy, I'se ready. Hold ya hoises!" He then walked out the door.  
  
"Ha ha!" Jack sarcastically spat, shutting the door behind him.  
  
"So, who's gonna be at Spot's pahty tonight?" Race asked, as the two boys thundered down the steps.  
  
"Ah, ya know, da us'al guys," Jack replied.  
  
The newsies were about to open the doors to the lodging house when Kloppman stuck his head out of his office. "Hey, Higgins, some girl here to see ya."  
  
Racetrack cast a thoughtful glance over to Jack who shrugged. "Is it Annie, Klopp?"  
  
"Whaddah I look like, Higgins, a psychic?" the old man snapped, before ducking once again inside his office.  
  
Racetrack rolled his eyes. "She must be in da pahlah."  
  
As the two crossed the foyar to the parlor, Jack inquired, "D'ya t'ink Annie changed 'er mind 'bout comin' tonight?"  
  
Race shook his head. "Nah. Da goil said dat she was 'sick.' Said dat dat's da reason she couldn't come. But I shoah da hell don't see no on else wit da flu."  
  
Racetrack pulled open the door to the parlor, secretly hoping it was Annie. But who he saw sitting on one of the wooden chairs was the last person on earth he expected to see in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
Butterfly James, the very same down to the black cloak draped over her, was sitting in the parlor, her hands folded in her lap. Although Race hadn't seen her well in the dark, he knew that she looked much worse. Her long hair was matted with filth, causing the wild ponytail not to shine. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her face showing the old trails of tears. Her odd eyes showed no luster, being red from crying. And a patch of dried blood clung to her hair in what looked like a wound to the head.  
  
She looked up at Racetrack with endlesly sad eyes. Race felt a stab of sympathy just looking into her gaze. "What are ya doin here?" he asked.  
  
Butterfly drew in a breath as a tear trickled down her cheek. It was obvious to Race that she was trying hard to control her tears. "I'se need a place ta stay," she whispered, looking once again at the floor.  
  
Race was nudged hard in the side by Jack, who gave him a look. Racetrack made a motion to tell him to stop, and walked over to Butterfly's side. "Shoah, ya can stay here."  
  
As soon as he uttered those words, Jack looked incredulously at him and Butterfly looked at him as though her were a guardian angel.  
  
"Oh, t'ank ya!" Butterfly cried, leaping out of the chair and embracing Racetrack.  
  
Race looked over her shoulder and to Jack with pleasing eyes. Jack shrugged and nodded. Race grinned.  
  
"I'll meet ya dere," Jack said in a low voice.  
  
"Walk alone?" asked Race.  
  
"Nah, I have ta pick up Melissa, anyway. Ya remembah, da goil I met last week?"  
  
Race nodded.  
  
"Git dere when ya can," Jack said, slipping out of the parlor, leaving Racetrack with the embracing girl.  
  
Racetrack finally backed out of the hold. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, goily. Foist I have a few question I need ansahed."  
  
"What?" Butterfly asked, her eyes flickering.  
  
"Who da hell are ya, Buttahfly James?" he asked, inhaling on his cigar.  
  
Butterfly was silent for a moment, as if fighting some inner demons. Finally she said, "I'se Buttahfly James. Like I said befoah."  
  
"Buttahfly James," Race echoed, stepping towards her. "Strange namesake foah a strange goil."  
  
A thin, sad smile crossed her lips, "Ya have no idea."  
  
"All I know is dat I have a pahty da git tah, and since me goil's sick, you'se my date," Race said, putting his hands on her shoulders, and spinning her around.  
  
"What d'ya mean, pahty ta git ta? I'se ain't goin ta no pahty!" Buttefly cried.  
  
"Little goil, ya stink ta high heaven, and I can't have a stinky date!" Race laughed.  
  
Butterfly, forgetting about her troubles, struck a pose with her hands on her hips and her jaw clenched. "I said dat I ain't goin ta no goddamn pahty and dat's it!"  
  
"Oh, is it, Stinky?" Race grinned, scooping Butterfly up in his arms.  
  
"Let me go, ya prick!" she squealed, kicking her legs.  
  
"I t'ink not!" Race said, carrying her up the stairs, and to the bunkroom, where he kicked in the door to the washroom.  
  
"What are ya doin' wit me?" Butterfly howled.  
  
"Givin' da Buttahfly a bath!" he laughed, as he approached a huge wooden tub filled with water.  
  
Butterfly didn't even realize what was happening before Race's arms slid out from under her and she landed with a huge splash in the tub, causing the floor and Racetrack to get soaked. Racetrack was in stitches when Butterfly emerged from the water, sitting cross-legged in the tub. She pushed her tangles of hair back and glared at him with her one green eye and one blue eye.  
  
"Moicy me, little girl, but ya have da oddest eyes I'se evah seen!" he smirked.  
  
Butterfly let out a shriek and ran her hand across the surface of the water, causing Racetrack to get soaked.  
  
Racetrack stared back at her in shock. "I t'ink I'll leave ya alone ta git cleaned up."  
  
Race, trying not to slip, left the washroom and shut the door behind him. He retreated to his bunk--he had the lower one and Mush had the top one. He sat down, lit a cigar, and let his gaze linger to the window. In the mid- June sky, the sun was still in the sky, but electric shocks of blue, orange, and purple dotted the sky.  
  
He would have already been to Spot's party, sitting with his friends and playing poker. But no, Butterfly James had come to the lodging place, asking for a place to stay.  
  
Then it hit him. The girl in the washroom was actually going to live in the lodging house. Live in the lodging house. How he never had expected to see the spitfire who saved him from the House of Refuge show up at his home and ask for a place to stay. He didn't even know her, and yet he had agreed. What the hell had be been thinking? Maybe the cigar fumes had finally affected his brain.  
  
Race then made up his mind that she couldn't stay here. He didn't even know her. And besides, she was a girl!  
  
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard singing coming from the washroom. Through the splashing of water, Racetrack could hear Buttterfly singing--horribly--some song: "My name is Yum Yonsin. I come from Wisconsin. I work in a lumber yard. The people I meet as I walk down the street say, "How do you do, Yum Yonsin?"  
  
Racetrack had to laugh at the girl's awful singing.  
  
After what seemed like a half an hour, Race was getting impatient. He didn't want to miss the party. He stromed over to the washroom door and prepared to knock on it when it opened and Butterfly appeared.  
  
She looked up at his fist. "Ya goin ta hit me, or somet'in?"  
  
Racetrack slowly lowered his fist, and then his gaze fell on Butterfly. He was taken aback. At least, he thought it was Butterfly. But it looked nothing like the girl he had seen barely a half of an hour ago. She was scrubbed clean of all the soot, and her wet hair hung down her back in blonde waves. And all she wore was a towel around her mid section.  
  
He could only gap.  
  
Butterfly reched a hand to his chin, and pushed it up, closing his gaping mouth. "I t'ink I need some cloths."  
  
"I t'ink dat ya shoah jist use da towl," Race commented.  
  
A scowl formed over Buttefly's mouth as she put her hands on her hips. "Ha, ha, you'se real funny. Now can I jist have a pait of goddamn cloths?"  
  
"What I t'ink ya need is a bar of soap ta wash out ya mouth. Ya swear worse dan any of me friends, little goil!" he cried.  
  
"Well, whaddya 'spect me to have, prim and propah language like some hoidy- toidy princess? It's what ya git from livin' on da streets all ya life," she said.  
  
This was the first time that Butterfly James had made any reference at all to her past and Race decided to use this to his advantage. "So, ya say dat ya come from da streets. What paht of New Yawk?"  
  
"Oh, Qu..." Butterfly realized her mistake. She wasn't about to spill that she was an ex-newsie from Queens with a bounty on her head. She had to make no references to Queens or the names Sprites at all. It was a known fact throughout all the newsboys of New York how the Lyners had murdered Jimmy Sprites and drove his sister Sarah out of Queens. She didn't need to go sliping up now.  
  
Racetrack, who had been rummaging through a trunk at the end of a bunk, looked up with a sly expression on his face. "'Qu' as in 'Queens', Buttahfly?"  
  
Butterfly could feel her face heat up to scarlett as she stepped back. "N..no. Not Queens, genuius, Qu...bec."  
  
"Quebec?" Racetrack asked in disbelief. "Quebec is a damn city in Canada, and you'se shaoh as hell ain't Canadian."  
  
"No, dumbass, I mean the restarant Quebec," she stammared.  
  
Racetrack looked Butterfly straight in the eye. "Dere is no Quebec rest'rant in New Yawk or my name ain't Racetrack Higgins"  
  
Butterfly gave him a smug look. "Den ya name ain't Racetrack Higgins."  
  
"Ya grew up in a damn restaurant?" he retaliated.  
  
"No, stupid. I grew up 'round da restaurant."  
  
"Den where is dis 'restaurant' located at?"  
  
Butterfly flipped her hair over her shoulder. "What is dis, da flippin' Inquisition or sump'tin? Why d'ya need ta know so much?"  
  
"If you'se haven't noticed, goily, ya gonna be stayin' in da lodgin' house and I have no clue who da hell ya are and I have no idea why I'se lettin' ya stay here!"  
  
"Well den," Butterfly said with a smirk, "ya shoah's have t'ought of dat befoah."  
  
Race could only sigh. 


	5. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR  
  
Jack Kelly furiously pounded on the door to the washroom. "Are ya ready yet, Racetrack Higgins?"  
  
Race's voice answered over the sound of rushing water. "Yeah, Jack, I'se ready!"  
  
After a few more moments, the door to the washroom opened and Race appeared. "I'se ready, Cowboy. Are ya ready?"  
  
Jack rolled his eyes and leaned in the doorway to the bunkroom. "I t'ought ya said dat ya were ready."  
  
Racetrack finished lighting his cigar before he looked up at Jack. "I'se ready, Cowboy, I'se ready. Hold ya hoises!" He then walked out the door.  
  
"Ha ha!" Jack sarcastically spat, shutting the door behind him.  
  
"So, who's gonna be at Spot's pahty tonight?" Race asked, as the two boys thundered down the steps.  
  
"Ah, ya know, da us'al guys," Jack replied.  
  
The newsies were about to open the doors to the lodging house when Kloppman stuck his head out of his office. "Hey, Higgins, some girl here to see ya."  
  
Racetrack cast a thoughtful glance over to Jack who shrugged. "Is it Annie, Klopp?"  
  
"Whaddah I look like, Higgins, a psychic?" the old man snapped, before ducking once again inside his office.  
  
Racetrack rolled his eyes. "She must be in da pahlah."  
  
As the two crossed the foyar to the parlor, Jack inquired, "D'ya t'ink Annie changed 'er mind 'bout comin' tonight?"  
  
Race shook his head. "Nah. Da goil said dat she was 'sick.' Said dat dat's da reason she couldn't come. But I shoah da hell don't see no on else wit da flu."  
  
Racetrack pulled open the door to the parlor, secretly hoping it was Annie. But who he saw sitting on one of the wooden chairs was the last person on earth he expected to see in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
Butterfly James, the very same down to the black cloak draped over her, was sitting in the parlor, her hands folded in her lap. Although Race hadn't seen her well in the dark, he knew that she looked much worse. Her long hair was matted with filth, causing the wild ponytail not to shine. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her face showing the old trails of tears. Her odd eyes showed no luster, being red from crying. And a patch of dried blood clung to her hair in what looked like a wound to the head.  
  
She looked up at Racetrack with endlesly sad eyes. Race felt a stab of sympathy just looking into her gaze. "What are ya doin here?" he asked.  
  
Butterfly drew in a breath as a tear trickled down her cheek. It was obvious to Race that she was trying hard to control her tears. "I'se need a place ta stay," she whispered, looking once again at the floor.  
  
Race was nudged hard in the side by Jack, who gave him a look. Racetrack made a motion to tell him to stop, and walked over to Butterfly's side. "Shoah, ya can stay here."  
  
As soon as he uttered those words, Jack looked incredulously at him and Butterfly looked at him as though her were a guardian angel.  
  
"Oh, t'ank ya!" Butterfly cried, leaping out of the chair and embracing Racetrack.  
  
Race looked over her shoulder and to Jack with pleasing eyes. Jack shrugged and nodded. Race grinned.  
  
"I'll meet ya dere," Jack said in a low voice.  
  
"Walk alone?" asked Race.  
  
"Nah, I have ta pick up Melissa, anyway. Ya remembah, da goil I met last week?"  
  
Race nodded.  
  
"Git dere when ya can," Jack said, slipping out of the parlor, leaving Racetrack with the embracing girl.  
  
Racetrack finally backed out of the hold. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, goily. Foist I have a few question I need ansahed."  
  
"What?" Butterfly asked, her eyes flickering.  
  
"Who da hell are ya, Buttahfly James?" he asked, inhaling on his cigar.  
  
Butterfly was silent for a moment, as if fighting some inner demons. Finally she said, "I'se Buttahfly James. Like I said befoah."  
  
"Buttahfly James," Race echoed, stepping towards her. "Strange namesake foah a strange goil."  
  
A thin, sad smile crossed her lips, "Ya have no idea."  
  
"All I know is dat I have a pahty da git tah, and since me goil's sick, you'se my date," Race said, putting his hands on her shoulders, and spinning her around.  
  
"What d'ya mean, pahty ta git ta? I'se ain't goin ta no pahty!" Buttefly cried.  
  
"Little goil, ya stink ta high heaven, and I can't have a stinky date!" Race laughed.  
  
Butterfly, forgetting about her troubles, struck a pose with her hands on her hips and her jaw clenched. "I said dat I ain't goin ta no goddamn pahty and dat's it!"  
  
"Oh, is it, Stinky?" Race grinned, scooping Butterfly up in his arms.  
  
"Let me go, ya prick!" she squealed, kicking her legs.  
  
"I t'ink not!" Race said, carrying her up the stairs, and to the bunkroom, where he kicked in the door to the washroom.  
  
"What are ya doin' wit me?" Butterfly howled.  
  
"Givin' da Buttahfly a bath!" he laughed, as he approached a huge wooden tub filled with water.  
  
Butterfly didn't even realize what was happening before Race's arms slid out from under her and she landed with a huge splash in the tub, causing the floor and Racetrack to get soaked. Racetrack was in stitches when Butterfly emerged from the water, sitting cross-legged in the tub. She pushed her tangles of hair back and glared at him with her one green eye and one blue eye.  
  
"Moicy me, little girl, but ya have da oddest eyes I'se evah seen!" he smirked.  
  
Butterfly let out a shriek and ran her hand across the surface of the water, causing Racetrack to get soaked.  
  
Racetrack stared back at her in shock. "I t'ink I'll leave ya alone ta git cleaned up."  
  
Race, trying not to slip, left the washroom and shut the door behind him. He retreated to his bunk--he had the lower one and Mush had the top one. He sat down, lit a cigar, and let his gaze linger to the window. In the mid- June sky, the sun was still in the sky, but electric shocks of blue, orange, and purple dotted the sky.  
  
He would have already been to Spot's party, sitting with his friends and playing poker. But no, Butterfly James had come to the lodging place, asking for a place to stay.  
  
Then it hit him. The girl in the washroom was actually going to live in the lodging house. Live in the lodging house. How he never had expected to see the spitfire who saved him from the House of Refuge show up at his home and ask for a place to stay. He didn't even know her, and yet he had agreed. What the hell had be been thinking? Maybe the cigar fumes had finally affected his brain.  
  
Race then made up his mind that she couldn't stay here. He didn't even know her. And besides, she was a girl!  
  
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard singing coming from the washroom. Through the splashing of water, Racetrack could hear Buttterfly singing--horribly--some song: "My name is Yum Yonsin. I come from Wisconsin. I work in a lumber yard. The people I meet as I walk down the street say, "How do you do, Yum Yonsin?"  
  
Racetrack had to laugh at the girl's awful singing.  
  
After what seemed like a half an hour, Race was getting impatient. He didn't want to miss the party. He stromed over to the washroom door and prepared to knock on it when it opened and Butterfly appeared.  
  
She looked up at his fist. "Ya goin ta hit me, or somet'in?"  
  
Racetrack slowly lowered his fist, and then his gaze fell on Butterfly. He was taken aback. At least, he thought it was Butterfly. But it looked nothing like the girl he had seen barely a half of an hour ago. She was scrubbed clean of all the soot, and her wet hair hung down her back in blonde waves. And all she wore was a towel around her mid section.  
  
He could only gap.  
  
Butterfly reched a hand to his chin, and pushed it up, closing his gaping mouth. "I t'ink I need some cloths."  
  
"I t'ink dat ya shoah jist use da towl," Race commented.  
  
A scowl formed over Buttefly's mouth as she put her hands on her hips. "Ha, ha, you'se real funny. Now can I jist have a pait of goddamn cloths?"  
  
"What I t'ink ya need is a bar of soap ta wash out ya mouth. Ya swear worse dan any of me friends, little goil!" he cried.  
  
"Well, whaddya 'spect me to have, prim and propah language like some hoidy- toidy princess? It's what ya git from livin' on da streets all ya life," she said.  
  
This was the first time that Butterfly James had made any reference at all to her past and Race decided to use this to his advantage. "So, ya say dat ya come from da streets. What paht of New Yawk?"  
  
"Oh, Qu..." Butterfly realized her mistake. She wasn't about to spill that she was an ex-newsie from Queens with a bounty on her head. She had to make no references to Queens or the names Sprites at all. It was a known fact throughout all the newsboys of New York how the Lyners had murdered Jimmy Sprites and drove his sister Sarah out of Queens. She didn't need to go sliping up now.  
  
Racetrack, who had been rummaging through a trunk at the end of a bunk, looked up with a sly expression on his face. "'Qu' as in 'Queens', Buttahfly?"  
  
Butterfly could feel her face heat up to scarlett as she stepped back. "N..no. Not Queens, genuius, Qu...bec."  
  
"Quebec?" Racetrack asked in disbelief. "Quebec is a damn city in Canada, and you'se shaoh as hell ain't Canadian."  
  
"No, dumbass, I mean the restarant Quebec," she stammared.  
  
Racetrack looked Butterfly straight in the eye. "Dere is no Quebec rest'rant in New Yawk or my name ain't Racetrack Higgins"  
  
Butterfly gave him a smug look. "Den ya name ain't Racetrack Higgins."  
  
"Ya grew up in a damn restaurant?" he retaliated.  
  
"No, stupid. I grew up 'round da restaurant."  
  
"Den where is dis 'restaurant' located at?"  
  
Butterfly flipped her hair over her shoulder. "What is dis, da flippin' Inquisition or sump'tin? Why d'ya need ta know so much?"  
  
"If you'se haven't noticed, goily, ya gonna be stayin' in da lodgin' house and I have no clue who da hell ya are and I have no idea why I'se lettin' ya stay here!"  
  
"Well den," Butterfly said with a smirk, "ya shoah's have t'ought of dat befoah."  
  
Race could only sigh. 


	6. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE  
  
"Where in hell is she?"  
  
Rylie Lyner's sharp green eyes surveyed the row of thugish newsies that stood in a line in front of him.  
  
Hornace Lyner stepped forward. "We'se don't know foah shoah, Ry."  
  
"Then what the hell do you know, you over-gown oaf?" the wire-thin newsie snapped.  
  
"Well, one of our newsies, Little Joe, helped 'is bruddah 'scape from da 'Ouse of Refuge last night. 'Is bruddah had been in dere 'bout a month. Anyhows, Little Joe's bruddah hoid 'im and anuddah newsie talkin' 'bout Sarah Sprites. Little Joe was 'scribin' da way dat she looks, and he said dat she had one green eye and one blue eye. Little Joe's bruddah tol' 'im dat 'bout a week ago two boys had 'scaped from da 'Ouse of Refuge at night while everyone was asleep..."  
  
Rylie interupted his brother with an impatient sigh. "And the point being?"  
  
"I'se gittin' dere, Rylie, I'se gittin' dere. Anyhows, Little Joe's bruddah said dat one of dat boys dat 'scaped had been dere before 'im. 'e always wore a black hood over 'is 'ead so ya couldn't see 'is face. Anyhows, one day Little Joe's bruddah walked by dis boy an swore dat 'e had one green eye and one blue eye..."  
  
"And he assumed that it was Sarah Sprites?"  
  
"Yeah, Ry. I means, how many poisins in New Yawk have damn different colored eyes?"  
  
Rylie closed his eyes for a moment, as if deep in though. He finally opened them, his gaze boring into Horance's.  
  
"I guess it could have been the stupid bitch," he said, sighing. "You can go, now."  
  
One by one, the newsies filed out of Rylie's bedroom, Horance the last. He was about to shut the door behind him, when Rylie called out his name. He turned around. "Yeah, Ry?"  
  
"You said that two boys escaped from the House of Refuge, is that not correct?"  
  
"Yeah, Ry, so?"  
  
"So, who was the other boy?"  
  
Hornace put a finger to his temple, thinking hard. "Oh, yeah, Little Joe said 'is bruddah saw 'im befoah, dat's how 'e knew 'is name. What was it...oh, yeah! Trackrace or something?"  
  
"Trackrace?" Rylie asked, letting the words flow over his tongue.  
  
"Yeah, Rylie, dat's what Little Joe said..."  
  
Rylie held a hand up. "It's alright, Horance. You may go."  
  
"Alright, Ry," Horance said, shutting the door behind him.  
  
Rylie sank back in his bunk, in a state of thought.  
  
"Trackrace," he murmured. "What the hell does that mean?"  
  
Then it hit him. And one word popped into his mind.  
  
A devious smile crossed his thin lips. "Manhattan."  
  
************  
  
Butterfly watched in wonder as the perfect circles of smoke came from Racetrack's lips. She watched the ring sail up in the sky and then evaporate.  
  
She looked at him in admiration. "Could ya teach me how ta do dat?"  
  
Racetrack gave her a look, and then cocked his head back and blew another perfect ring of smoke.  
  
"Smug bastard," Butterfly said under her breath.  
  
"What did ya call me, Canada?" Race asked, inhaling on his cigar.  
  
Butterfly rolled his eyes at him. "Will ya stop callin' me dat goddmn name? I'se not Canadian!"  
  
Race smirked. "You'se said dat ya where from Quebec..."  
  
Butterfly playfully pushed him, almost causing him to take a spill on the ground. "No, ya prick! I said dat I grew up near da restaurant Quebec. Not da damn city!"  
  
"I'll make ya dis deal, Canada. When I see wit me own eyes dis restaurant dat ya grew up near called Quebec, I'se will stop callin' ya Canada."  
  
"Alright, Racetrack. I'd show ya right now, but ya want ta go to dis pahty..."  
  
"Hey!" Race exclaimed. "Spot's pokah pahties are da best!"  
  
"Why?" Butterfly asked.  
  
A smile lit up Race's face. "Cause I always win!"  
  
"Hey, how far away is Brooklyn, anyway? I feel like I'se been walkin' forevah!" Butterfly whined.  
  
"Stop ya whinin', Canada. We'se almost' dere. See dat's da Brooklyn Bridge right dere."  
  
"Oh, da Brooklyn Bridge! Oh, Racetrack, I love da Brooklyn Bridge, Race! My friend from Brooklyn brought me here once! Oh, let's go!" she squealed, grabbing Racetrack's hand, and picking up her pace, causing him to cry out in suprise.  
  
When they finally reached the bridge, Race was panting and his face was scarlett. Butterfly ran to the railing, and leaned over it, looking entranced with the splashing waters before her.  
  
She turned to Race, smoothing down her hair that was blowing in the breeze caused by the waves. A smile dominated her face. "Ya know, when I was wit me friend, we climbed over da railing, 'e said dat it was da best view. And, oh my Lord, Race, is was, it really was. It looked like ya was flyin'. I mean really flyin'....."  
  
She turned back to the waters. Race kept his gaze on Butterfly James. He had never met such an odd girl before. He didn't know who she was, where in hell the restaurant titled Quebec was, why she had been in the House of Refuge, or why she had asked to stay in the lodging house, and at that minute he didn't care. Words couldn't describe that moment that he had with the girl with the different colored eyes on the Brooklyn Bridge.  
  
"Hey, Canada," he said softly.  
  
"Yeah, Race?" she answered, her eyed bright and her tangles of hair blowing in the wind.  
  
"I'se make ya a deal..."  
  
"Anuddah one?"  
  
"Yeah, Canada, anuddah one. If we can git ta Spot's pahty in da next cent'ry jist so I can play a few hands of pokah and win, I'll come back wit ya to dis spot ya said 'bout during da sun set."  
  
Butterfly looked from Racetrack to the jeweled spackled water and back. She slowly nodded her head.  
  
"Alright, let's go."  
  
Racetrack had already started walking, but when he realized that Butterfly wasn't with him, he spun around. She stood, still looking out in the waters, as if they captivated her.  
  
He walked back to her and took hold of her wrist. "C'mon, Canada. We'se gonna come back. Colin Higgins always keeps his promises."  
  
Butterfly took one last look at the scene under the Brooklyn Bridge, and reluctantly let her hands slip free of the railings.  
  
Butterfly and Racetrack walked in silence with matching strides for a few minutes before Butterfly broke up into snorts.  
  
Racetrack stopped and stared at her. "What?"  
  
She only looked at him and her snorts became hysterical laughter that almost caused her to fall to her knees. She put a hand on his shoulder for support.  
  
"What da hell is so flippin' funny, Canada?"  
  
"Ya...ya..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Ya...ya...ya name is..C..C...Colin?" Butterfly was almost in tears.  
  
Race raised his eyebrow. "What the hell is so goddamn funny about me name."  
  
Butterfly maintained a straight face. "Nothing...Colin!" she laughed hysterically, unable to keep it.  
  
Racetrack playfully shoved her. "And what's ya real name, Canada?"  
  
Without thinking, Butterfly answered, "Sarah."  
  
"Ooh, Sarah, now dat's a hoot!" Race forced a laugh.  
  
But Butterfly had stopped her laughing immdediatly after she had realized her grave mistake. She had given away her real name. She felt a pit start in her stomach.  
  
"Why did ya stop laughin', Sarah?"  
  
"Don't call me by that goddamn name!" Butterfly snapped.  
  
Racetrack help up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Canada. No need ta toin intah a bitch! I'se didn't mean nuttin'! Let's hurry da hell up an' get ta Spot's. I hear a pokah game callin' out my name!"  
  
Racetrack cheerfully linked arms with Butterfly and drug her the rest of the way to the lodging house. Butterfly was glad that Race was supporting her, she didn't know if her legs would work after what she said. 


	7. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX  
  
Butterfly James's ears were invaded with loud yelling and shouting when Racetrack pushed open the door to the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. Racetrack purposly let the door slam shut with a bang. This caught the attention of most the newsies.  
  
"Hey, Race, where have ya been?"  
  
"Who's da goil?"  
  
"No wondah 'e's been late!"  
  
Random greetings to Race filled the air. The newsie that Butterfly had seen earlier that day when she had been in the Manhattan lodging house stood up and waved Racetrack over. "Hey, Race, come join in a hand!"  
  
Race nodded his head and rubbed his hands together as a smile crept over his face. He started over to the poker game, when he realized that he had left Canada standing alone in the middle of the parlor. He went back over to her and grabbed her elbow, leaning in to whisper to her, "I only need ta make a shoaht apperance here and den we can go back to ya spot."  
  
Butterfly forced a smile. Her gaze followed him as Racetrack slid into a chair and immediatly picked up a hand of cards. She sighed and sat in one of the wooden chairs that lined the wall. Looking around, Butterfly felt lonlier than ever. The majority of the newsies--Butterfly figured they were newsboys--were crowded around the warped, circular wooden table that served as center for the poker game. Other newsies were sitting on random chairs that lined the walls. And she realized that she was the only girl in the whole room.  
  
Just then, Butterfly despretly wished that she had her black cloak so that she could slip her hood over her head. But she couldn't. Her level of uncomfortability rose and the room seemed to become stifling. She had to get out of there. She rose from the chair and exited the lodging house, where she relished the fresh air.  
  
Butterfly sat down on the steps. Resting her chin in her palm, she looked up at the sky. The sun was already beginning to set. Racetrack was going to break his promise....Racetrack. Butterfly finally realized how stupid he must think she is. Showing up looking like sin and on the edge of a nervous breakdown asking for a place to stay. Why, he didn't even know her. Why should she be a burden on him--on all the other newsies of the lodging house--when she had to take care of herself. But Skiddy's words had haunted her, as they still did. She needed a place to stay. She knew that when Rylie Lyner wanted someone dead, basically that person was never seen alive again. And she wanted to live.  
  
Because Racetrack wasn't that common of a name, she had found out easily where his residence was. Butterfly found it hard to stomach that he was a newsie--she still feared that he would recognize her in some silly way as Jimmy Sprites's little sister. But he hadn't--yet. But he most likely would. She had acted like a stupidass in front of him, giving away her first name in almost sputtering the name 'Queens.' But saving herself by using the lame story of the Quebec restaurant.  
  
Butterfly's thoughts ultiamatly brought her back to the harsh truth she couldn't shake: her brother's murderers were looking for her. And how much she missed her brother. She buried her face in her knees and silently cried.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Annie, stop!" Spot Conlon, cried, pushing Annie Murphy off him.  
  
Annie brushed her red tangles of curls off her face and a sly smile crossed her red lips. "Spot, honey, why are ya pushin' lil' ole me off?"  
  
"You'se bein' too loud, honey!" he whispered.  
  
Annie giggled. "Oh, Spot, you'se so silly. D'ya really t'ink dat dey can hear us? Dey are so involved with dere damn poker game dey probably don't even realize dat ya missin!"  
  
Spot shrugged. "Yeah, ya prob'ly right."  
  
Spot pressed his lips to Annie's and kissed her passionatly. Annie responded by running her hands in Spot's already messed up hair. The pair fell back onto the bed.  
  
"RACETRACK! How did ya win again?" A voice from the parlor found its way into Spot's room.  
  
Annie immediatly sat up.  
  
"What is it, Annie?" Spot asked, kissing her neck.  
  
Annie pushed him off and jumped out of bed. "Racetrack!" she hissed. "Ya said dat 'e wasn't here yet."  
  
He cast her a sly expression from the bed. "Yeah, dat's what Whitie tol' me an hour ago. He could be here now."  
  
"Shit!" Annie screeched, a expression of panic crossing her face. She stumbled around the room, making an effort to pick up her cloths that lay strewn on the ground.  
  
Spot swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'se don't see why ya panicin', Ann. I mean, Race already knows dat ya screwin' every guy in New Yawk 'cept him!"  
  
Annie pulled on the last of her articles of clothing and narrowed her eyes at Spot. "Go screw yaself, Conlon!" she spat.  
  
"No, honey, I'se like ya ta do dat instead!" he hollered back.  
  
Annie harshly sighed and clasped her hand on the door knob, preparing to swing the door open when Spot spat, "No, Annie, know! Go t'rough da window!"  
  
Annie spun around to glare at him, her hands on her hips. "And why shoahd I do dat, Conlon?"  
  
"D'ya really want Race ta know what ya doin'?"  
  
She sighed and stormed over to the window, unclasping the lock and pushing it open. "Have a fun pahty, Conlon!"  
  
Spot watched as the last of Annie's red tendrils disappeared out the window, before he got out of bed and slammed it behind her.  
  
"Stupid bitch," he muttered.  
  
Spot started the task of picking up his cloths that lay strewn about the floor. While he slid into his garmets once again, his mind wandered to Annie Murphy.  
  
Annie Murphy. Better known as Anytime Annie. Before she had been courted by Racetrack, she had been one of the best known tramps around New York. But Racetrack had taken a chance. Spot thought that his friend was a total moron for dating such a girl. Racetrack probably knew that Annie was sleeping with anything on four legs (or without), including Spot. Spot knew it was wrong to be double crossing his buddy, but, hell, he thought, the girl just was so damn good....  
  
Spot sighed and finished clasping the last button on his collar shirt. He knew he probably had Annie's red lipstick all over his body and his hair probably looked like hell, but who cares? All the guys knew Spot was a skirt-chaser and the reason he was so fashionably late to his own party was because he had had a girl shacked up in his room.  
  
He opened the door to his room and walked to the parlor, where large group of newsies were crowded around the makeshift poker table. Looks of anticipation lined there faces.  
  
Spot became angry when no one adknowledged his appearance. He set his jaw and furrowed his brow as he stalked over to the table to see what was the big deal. Spot wasn't surprised by what he saw. Racetrack Higgins and Whitie Wilson sat facing each other at the warped table, sly expressions on their faces and their cards held in front of their faces. Race and Whitie were the two best card players in New York, as most newsies deemed.  
  
Racetrack locked eyes with Whitie. "Well, Wilson, whaddya have?"  
  
A smirk crossed Whitie's face as he lay his cards on the table. "Full house, Higgins. And you?"  
  
A pained look crossed Race's face. "Ooh, Wilson, looks like ya got me..."  
  
Whitie raised his fist in the air as Brooklyn broke up into cheers.  
  
"...but, not dis time," he finished.  
  
Whitie brought his fist slowly down, the smile wiped from his face. Brooklyn's cheers died.  
  
Racetrack's smile only got wider as he lay down his cards in one quick sweep. "Look at dis boys! Some one must be usin' da toilet 'cause I'se hear a flush!"  
  
Now it was Manhattan's turn to break into cheers. Racetrack cast Whitie a large grin as he collected his chips with one slow gesture.  
  
Whitie had to smile. "You'se good, Race, you'se good."  
  
"I know, Wilson, I know, ya don't have to remind me," Race replied.  
  
Spot shook his head and backed away from the table. He wasn't in the mood for poker. He spun on his heels and walked out of the lodging house.  
  
The muggy June twilight greeted him. "Jesus Christ, it's hot out," Spot said out loud, dropping down on the stairs.  
  
"Ya shouldn't take da Lord's name in vain."  
  
A quiet voice behind Spot made him jump out of his skin. He quickly turned around. In the shadows he saw the dim features of a girl huddled up on one of the benches propped up against the facade of the lodging house.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" Spot excalim, his voice cracking. "Ya scared da hell outta me, goil!"  
  
She rolled her eyes in response at him.  
  
Spot stood up and sat on the bench next to the mysterious girl. "Do I know you?" he asked, trying to match her face to a name.  
  
She slowly shook her head and snorted. "Probably not."  
  
"Did ya come here wit someone?"  
  
"Racetrack," she murmured.  
  
Racetrack? Spot thought.  
  
"You 'is goil or something?"  
  
The girl looked Spot straight in the eye for the first time. Her bizarre eyes--one green and one blue--blazed. "Why da fuck do ya care?"  
  
Spot was taken aback by her out burst. "Whoa, da language foah a little goil!"  
  
"I ain't no little goil!" she snapped, jumping off the bench and stalking away. But Spot grabbed her wrist and held her back.  
  
"Let me go!" she hissed.  
  
Now her was intrigued by her. "Tell me who ya are and I will."  
  
The girl rolled her eyes. "Why ain't dis deja-vous!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nuttin'."  
  
"Well, who are ya?" Spot pressed, determined to get this gorgeous creature's name.  
  
She yanked harder on his hand, but Spot wouldn't let her go. "Buttahfly!" she exasperly said at last.  
  
Spot looked pleased. "Well, Buttahfly, I'se Spot. Pleashah ta meet ya." He took her captured hand and kissed it.  
  
While his lips were still on it, Butterfly, in one quick motion, jerked her hand out of his grasp. "Da pleashah's not retoined!"  
  
Butterfly bounded down the steps and into the fledgling darkness, leaving Spot alone, and with a craving to see the mysterious girl again that wouldn't go away.  
  
"Heya, Race, ya almost ready ta go home?" Jack yawned, streching his hands over his head.  
  
"Yeah, Cowboy," Racetrack replied, shoving his winnings of the night into his pockets.  
  
Race joined his friend near the door to the lodging house and surveyed the room. None of Manhattan remained, save Jack and Race. A few of Spot Conlon's newsies littered the tired parlor, some draped over chairs fast asleep and a brave few carrying on a late poker game.  
  
"Well, let's go," Jack said.  
  
"Alright, Jack, let's go," Race replied, a yawn overtaking him.  
  
Both newsies turned to the door to leave when a voice called out behind them. "Hey, Higgins, where ya goin'?"  
  
The duo spun around. Whitie Wilson approached them, a tired smile on his face. "Hey, ya goin' wit out sayin' g'bye?"  
  
"Now would we do dat?" Race laughed.  
  
Whtie nodded his head. "Probably."  
  
After they had said their goodnights, Jack piped in, "Hey, Whitie, where's Spot? 'e missed 'is own damn pahty?"  
  
Whitie shook his head and laughed. "I know, Cowboy, I know. Probably in 'is room wit some goil."  
  
Jack nodded. "Yeah, most likely. Well, g'night."  
  
"Night, Cowboy, Race," Whitie yawned again, spinning around and disappearing from the parlor.  
  
Jack and Racetrack finally departed the Brooklyn lodging house. They hadn't gone but ten paces when Race cried out, "Canada!"  
  
That woke Jack from his sleeplike stupor. "Who is Canada, Race?"  
  
Race's eyes widened. "Buttahfly."  
  
Jack still didn't respond.  
  
"Ya know, da goil who wants ta live in da lodgin' house?"  
  
"Oh...right. What 'bout 'er, Race?"  
  
"I forgot 'er!" he cried, turning around and running back to the lodging house, leaving Jack standing half asleep in the middle of the road.  
  
"Right," Jack groggily said. "I'se jist walk home by meself."  
  
Racetrack reached the lodging house and yanked the door open, startling the newsies that were still awake in the parlor.  
  
"Hey, Racetrack."  
  
"Hey, Race."  
  
"Hey, guys. Have any of you'se seen a goil wit long blonde 'air and diff'rint color eyes?"  
  
The two Broklyn newsies exchanged glances. "No, Race we haven't."  
  
"Ya sure?"  
  
"Yeah, Race, haven't seen no goil here all night."  
  
Race sighed. "Alright, it don't mattah. See ya."  
  
"Bye, Race!" the two newsies called after him.  
  
Racetrack slid his hands into his pockets (which were filled with money) and shuffled out of the lodging house. Suprisingly, he was very disappointed that Canada had disappeared. Even though he knew nothing of her, he still wished she would have stayed long enough for him to have unraveled her mystery.  
  
"Canada," he whispered in the night air, a smile touching his lips.  
  
Racetrack found himself whistling the same tune that Butterfly had been singing in the washroom that afternoon.  
  
Streetlights became to sleepily flicker on as Race passed under their pale yellow beams. But something caught his eye, a silhouette that lay slumped on a bench. He let his gaze linger on the figure (thinking it was some hobo) as he passed it.  
  
Racetrack halted suddenly in his tracks and did a double take on the heap. It couldn't be.  
  
"Canada!" he cried, rushing back to the bench.  
  
It was Butterfly.  
  
Race suddenly felt a rush of happiness--she hadn't gone, after all. He squatted next to her and shook her shoulder, whispering her name. She still didn't wake.  
  
"Ah, Canada, don't make me carry ya all da way back ta Manhattan!" Race whispered.  
  
Butterfly responded with her rhythmic sleeping.  
  
Racetrack sighed and, slipping his arms under her knees and back, lifted her. Butterfly softly exhaled inher sleep and fidgited in his hold, before curling herself up against his chest.  
  
Race walked for sometime before he reached the Brooklyn Bridge. He halted and looked out at the full moon and it's wavering reflection on the waters below. This scene reminded him of a promise he had made earlier.  
  
If we can git ta Spot's pahty in da next cent'ry jist so I can play a few hands of pokah and win, I'll come back wit ya to dis spot ya said 'bout during da sun set.  
  
He suddenly felt ashamed and looked down at her. Her multi colored eyes were closed in a peaceful sleep as the moonlight reflected on her tangles of pale yellow hair.  
  
He looked to the waters again. "A promise is a promise, Canada. And Racetrack Higgins don't break 'is promises. I'll go ta ya spot during da sunset befoah I die."  
  
And with that Racetrack Higgins carried a sleeping Butterfly James home in his arms, not thinking of it as a burden at all, no, quite the contrary, it wasn't a burden at all. And the name Anytime Annie Murphy didn't enter his mind at all.  
  
********  
  
"Dere she is."  
  
"Are ya sure dat's 'er?"  
  
"Yeah, I'se shoah. Let's go."  
  
The blonde girl's piercing scream cut through the air and the sound of a short struggle was heard, then nothing more. 


	8. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN  
  
The slam startled the newsies. They cast their gazes up to the bunkroom door to see Mush standing in the doorway, his papes resting on his shoulders and a sheepish look plastered on his face. The majority of the newsies looked away and continued their morning ritual of getting ready before a long day of selling.  
  
Mush squeezed through the newsies that crowded the bunkroom, making his way over to his bunk and laying the papes on it with a sigh.  
  
"Heya, Mush. Why back so oily?"  
  
Mush knew the familiar, raspy voice at once. "Heya, Race," he replied, ducking his head to find Racetrack sprawled on the lower bunk, inhaling on a cigar.  
  
"Why ya back so oily?" Race asked again.  
  
Mush sighed. "I forgot me hat."  
  
Race let out a snort. "Ya hat's dat damn important ta come back foah it?"  
  
Mush eagerly nodded. "Sure da 'ell is, Race. It's so hot out there I t'ought I was about ta melt!"  
  
"Melt like a stick of buttah?"  
  
Mush spun around to see Kid Blink perched on the top of a bunk, his blonde hair wet from a recent shower.  
  
"You'se real funny, Blink," he sarcastically said.  
  
"I know, Mushy, ya don't 'ave ta tell me."  
  
"Blinky knows 'e's a riot," Racetrack commented.  
  
Mush grabbed his derby hat and sat it on his head. "Well, guys, I'se bettah be goin'. Don't want to be too late."  
  
Blink and Race exchanged glances.  
  
Mush shrugged and turned on his heel when Blink jumped from the bunk and called, "Hey, Mush, what's da headlinah?"  
  
Mush turned around, fumbling for a paper. "Oh..." he said, scanning it, "A moidah..."  
  
This stuck Racetrack's interest. "Who?" he asked, standing up and grabbing the paper from Mush. Blink and Mush looked over his shoulder as Racetrack read the screaming headline:  
  
BRUTAL HOMICIDE OF WEALTHY NEW YORK SOCILITE"S DAUGHTER  
  
MANHATTAN--Courtney Anne Knox, daughter of wealthy New York stockbroker Arnold Knox and his wife Isa, was found brutally murdered this morning in Manhattan. Reports say that the 16-year-old girl's neck had been slashed by an unknown attacker. Events leading up to the murder are this at the moment: Arnold and Isa Knox had made plans to attend a charity ball last night. When questioned, Knox said that he specifically told his daughter to stay home. Armina Kellinah, Miss Knox's maid, was reached for questioning and said that indeed the girl disobeyed her father's wishes. Kellinah claims that Miss Knox told her that she was planning that night to have a rendez-vous with a young man that her father disapproved of. Kellinah was quoted as saying, "Courtney Anne told me that she was going to meet a young man last night. I strongly suggested against it. I told her that the streets of New York are very dangerous at night. Courtney agreed and said that she wouldn't visit him. I believed her. And when I heard early this morning that she had been murdered after sneaking out, I was devastated. She was such a sweet girl." It is speculated that Miss Knox snuck out after dark to meet up with her lover, but it was an ill trip, for she was snatched and her throat slashed. Bruises in the form of male fingerprints appeared on Miss Knox's cheeks and chin. It appeares who ever committed this grisly murder was of the male persuasion. It is also speculted that who ever committed the murder, hid out or is hiding out in Queens. A bloody knife and a precious ring identified as Miss Knox's was found near an abandoned warehouse early this morning by a civilian. When asked for who could have possibly committed this henious murder, Manhattan Police Chief Toby Hausterfut said, "At this time, we don't have any leads on who could have murdered Miss Knox. The ring and the knife found in Queens brought some speculation that the murderer resided in Queens. You never know...all those crazy newsboys over there, but we doubt that for it could have been a jealous lover or anyone at this point." STORY CONTINUED ON PAGE A-3.  
  
The three sets of eyes darted over to the cover picture that was printed to the right of the article. The picture showed a smiling, gorgeous girl with big eyes and flowing blonde hair to match her flowing dress.  
  
Blink let out a long whistle. "Pretty goil. Can't believe day dey even suggested dat Queens could 'ave killed 'er."  
  
"I don't see why not," Mush said quietly. "It's a known fact dat Queens went to da dogs aftah Jimmy Sprites was killed."  
  
Racetrack shook his head. "Poor girl," he commented, before breaking the subject as abruptly as it had been started. "So, are you'se gonna sell papes tahday?"  
  
Kid Blink gave him an incredulous look before breaking out into a string of wild laughter. "Whattah comedian, Mush! Racetrack, old boy, ya crack me up! 'Course we'se gonna sell!We'se goddamn newsies, foah Christ's sake! What do ya want us ta do? Twiddle our damn thumbs all day?"  
  
Race rolled his eyes as Mush stifled his laughter by putting a hand to his mouth.  
  
Blink's laughter died away. "Why, Race? What da 'ell are you gonna do?"  
  
Racetrack could feel his cheeks fire up as he stumbled for the words to say. "Well, uh, since ya know, Canada..."  
  
"Canada?" Blink asked, lifting an eyebrow.  
  
"Buttahfly..." Race stammered.  
  
Blink and Mush exchanged sly glances. "Yeah, Race, I know 'er..." He pointed to the bunk below his, to the left of Racetrack's. Butterfly was curled up on the bed, a peaceful expression on her face, the sun beams streaming from the window creating sparkling highlights in her hair. "...I sleep on top of 'er at night!"  
  
That caused Blink to burst out into laughter, and Mush, not being able to control himself, to do the same, while slapping Blink on the back. Race felt his face become scorching red.  
  
"Ya asshole!" Race stammered, rolling up the newspaper and smacking the back of Blink's head with it.  
  
"Owh!" Blink cried out through his howls. That just caused Mush to fall to his knees from laughter.  
  
After what seemed like hours, Mush was finally able to stand up without collapsing from laughter, and Blink was able to control himself, while rubbing the back of his head.  
  
"Dat really hoit!" Blink whined, causing Mush to snort.  
  
Racetrack only rolled his eyes and blew cigar smoke into Blink's face. Blink fell back on the edge of Butterfly's bunk, coughing and waving his hands in front of his face. Once the smoke had cleared, Blink could open his eyes. Being that his normally brilliant blue eyes were bloodshot from the smoke, just set Mush off into hysterical laughter again.  
  
Kid Blink's brow furrowed in anger and his red eyes glittered. He thrust himself off the bunk (surprisingly not waking Butterfly) and heaved himself at Race, grabbing his derby hat off his head and swatting it across his face.  
  
"Ya know dat I'se 'llergic ta smoke, ya ass!" Blink cried.  
  
Mush's laughter immediatly subsided and guilt rushed through Racetrack as Blink let out a growl and rubbed his eyes, just irritating them more.  
  
Race sheepishly got off his bunk and put a hand on Blink's shoulder. "Blink..."  
  
Kid Blink angerly shook it off. "Leave me alone, Higgins!" he spat.  
  
Racetrack and Mush both watched their friend thunder to the washroom, and jumped when he slammed the door.  
  
"What da 'ell's wrong wit Blink?" they heard a fellow newsie ask in the background.  
  
Mush quietly scooped his papes up once again, resting them on his shoulder. He looked Race in they eye and gave him an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, Race. Ya know Blink. 'e'll be ovah it quick as a snap. Ya know 'im. 'e's so goddamn emotional."  
  
Racetrack forced a smile as he snubbed out the ill-purposed cigar. "Yeah, Mush, I guess ya right..."  
  
"Dat's it. Well, Race, I'se bettah be goin'. I'se late as it is already!" Mush chirpily said.  
  
"Right, Mush, bye," Race said without emotion.  
  
"Bye, Race," Mush said, walking out of the bunkroom whistling an upbeat tune.  
  
Race sighed and flopped back onto his bunk, feeling horrible that one of his best friends was furious at him.  
  
Oh, screw him, Racetrack thought. If he wanted to put his plan into action for that day, he better wake Butterfly.  
  
He rolled over, planning to have to shake her awake, but instead Race almost jumped out of his skin. Butterfly was laying on her side, her head propped up on her elbow, a sly grin on her face. Her hair glinted white and odd eyes dazzled hauntingly in the sun. Racetrack was mesmerized by her eyes, before Butterfly broke the trance.  
  
"What in hell was 'is problem?"  
  
In spite of himself, he had to smile. As he sat on the edge of his bunk he replied, "I blew smoke in 'is face and 'e jist got all furious."  
  
Butterfly seemed to take this in, before grinning, "Well, good mornin', Colin Higgins. Aren't ya gonna see ya papes taday?"  
  
Racetrack, stuffing the pape under his pillow, felt his cheeks flush again for the fourth time that day, all on account of Butterfly James. That had never happened to him before, save the time that Annie had agreed to become his girl when he had asked her. "Act'lly, no, Canada," a shy smile crossing his face. "Since you'se gonnabe livin' wit us in Manhattan, I t;ought maybe I'd show ya all da 'ot spots?" He posed it more as a question than as a statement.  
  
Butterfly's eyes lit up. "Really, Col?"  
  
Racetrack knew his whole face had to be as red as a fire engine. What the hell kind of effect did this girl have over him? "Really, Canada."  
  
Butterfly swung her legs over the edge of her bunk and streched her arms over her head.  
  
"Have a nice sleep?" Race asked, reaching for a cigar.  
  
She nodded her head furiously. "Oh, hell yes, Racetrack. Aftah spendin' eighteen goddamn months in the Dump of Refuge, anyt'ing seems like a five stah 'otel. I was out all night. All I remembah is fallin' asleep in Brooklyn...and den wakin' up here." She shook her head in disbelief and locked eyes with Racetrack. "I must be goin' crazy. How could I have been in Brooklyn and ended up here?"  
  
Butterfly stood up. "Well, Col, when are we goin'?"  
  
Race absently minded nodded his head.  
  
"Can I use the washroom?"  
  
Race shook his head.  
  
Butterfly gave him a strange look. Racetrack Higgins looked like he was in his own little world.  
  
"I'se not gonna run inta any naked newsies in dere, Race, am I?"  
  
Race shook his head.  
  
Now Butterfly knew he was off his rocker. A smile crept across her face. "Col, am I da Queen of England?"  
  
Race shook his head.  
  
Butterfly let out a giggle. "Ya outta it, Race. I'll be in da washroom one minute."  
  
Racetrack watched as Butterfly, strode to the washroom. In fact, he wasn't out of it. He had just been cuaght off guard when she made reference to falling asleep in Brooklyn and waking up in Manhattan. He remembered carrying her in his arms and her rhythmic breathing. How her eyes took his breath away when they sparkled in the sun. How only she could get away by calling him Colin, and it actually sound good coming from her lips.  
  
Racetrack shook his head, banishing those thoughts from his head as he lit up a cigar. What the hell was she doing to him? He didn't know anything about the mysterious Butterfly James. And anyway, he was dating Annie. Annie Murphy. Annie was a nice girl...but Butterfly was better.  
  
********  
  
"What the FUCK is this?"  
  
Rylie Lyner's booming voice rocketed in the bunkroom. His normally pale face was flushed red with fury beyond belief.  
  
"What is this?" he bellowed, holding up that day's newspaper, pointing to the headline.  
  
The oafish newsies standing in the familar line read the blaring headline: BRUTAL HOMICIDE OF WEALTHY NEW YORK SOCILITE'S DAUGHTER.  
  
They looked into his shocking green eyes, actually feeling fright. Although he was small and thin, no one wanted to witness the side of Rylie Lyner when he was furious. Alike were he and Spot Conlon, little yet commanding.  
  
"What is this?" he boomed again.  
  
Some of his powerful newsies even flinched.  
  
Rylie struck the picture of the smiling blonde with his index finger. "Who the hell is this? Jasper, Ulf, who the FUCK did you murder?"  
  
Jasper Johnston and Ulf Uberstein stepped forawrd from the line-up.  
  
"WELL?"  
  
Jasper spoke. "Ya told us ta kill Sarah Sprites. And ya said dat she was blonde. It was dark as hell out and me and Ulf saw a blonde goil...."  
  
"But it wasn't Sarash Sprites," Rylie said in a sing song voice. Then he exploded. "It was some rich bitch named Courtney Anne Knox. Now Sarah Sprites. Courtney Anne fucking Knox! How could you be so stupid!"  
  
Jasper and Ulf stood silent.  
  
"How could you be? The bull chief even makes reference to Queens newsies! How could you just drop the goddamn knife and her ring in Queens? How could you be so goddamn stupid?" Rylie blared.  
  
"We'se sahrry, Rylie," Jasper and Ulf said in unison.  
  
Rylie slunk off his bunk and over to the two newsies, who towered over him by more than a foot. "You're sorry? Sorry are you? Well, sorry is not going to get us out of this mess." As quick as lightning, Rylie's hand went to his back pocket, grabbed the hilt of his knife, and slashed it across Jasper Johnson's throat. Jasper fell to his knees, clutching his neck, but to no avail. Blood gushed through his fingers. He finally fell like a sack of potatos to his stomach.  
  
Ulf looked at the fallen newsie with horror eched in his face. He then looked to Rylie, as he backed away. "Rylie, no, no, please don't kill me!"  
  
Rylie strode up to him. "Now, now, don't be silly, Uberstein, why the hell would I kill you?"  
  
Ulf let out a sigh of relief.  
  
"Actually, I would kill you because you just fucked me over with your stupidity. Good-bye, Ulf," Rylie stated, before driving his knife into the side of Ulf's neck.  
  
Rylie let go of the hilt as the newsie fell to the floor.  
  
Rylie, wiping his bloody hands together and acting as though nothing had happened, walked back to his bunk. He then turned to the other newsies who looked in horror at the two dead corpses on the floor.  
  
"What?" Rylie asked nonchalantly.  
  
"N...nothing," Horance Lyner stammered.  
  
"Good!" Rylie cheerfully exclaimed. "Now, be good little newsies and get these two rotting bodies out of here. This is just a warning for you not to mess up. but I know you won't because you are all good little newsies, right?"  
  
The newsies murmered in agreement as they scooped up the two fallen newsies, dragging them out of Rylie's room.  
  
As Horance was shutting the door behind him, Rylie called out.  
  
"Yeah, Ry," his brother asked somberly.  
  
A shadow fell across Rylie Lyner's face. "Find her, Horance. Go to Manhattan and find that bitch. I want her dead. And don't fail." 


	9. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT  
  
Racetrack Higgins let out a long sigh, stalked over to the washroom, and banged on the door. "Buttahfly James, if ya 'aven't fell down da toilet, den will ya please hurry da 'ell up!"  
  
He heard the shuffle of feet. The knob twisted and the door was swun open, causing Race to fall forward on his face from leaning his elbow on the door.  
  
Butterfly James jumped as he crashed to the door. "Oh my Lord, Racetrack, I am so sahrry!" she cried, squatting down and taking his elbow.  
  
Race shook her off, raising his face from the ground, and causing Butterfly to break into hysterical laughter. For the cigar he had been smoking was now crushed to a pulp, the ashes strewn all over his face.  
  
"Ha ha ha," Racetrack said crossly, hoisting himself into a sitting position and brushing the soot off his face. That made Butterfly howls louder.  
  
His chocolate brown eyes bore into her. "What da hell is so funny now, Canada."  
  
"Oh my God," she said through laughter. "Ya looked like a damn cat cleanin' it's face."  
  
Race stood up, murmuring to himself, while Butterfly collapsed on the floor. He returned a moment later. "Canada?"  
  
"Yeah, Race?" she said through snorts, looking up in time to see him towering over her with a bucket of water in hand.  
  
Her laughter disappeared all together and her eyes opened wide in shock. "What da hell is dat foah?"  
  
A wicked look crossed Racetrack's face as he said, "Oh, nuttin' really, Canada. Jist some watah to wash me face off wit."  
  
Butterfly looked relieved. "Oh, good, because..."  
  
But her words were cut short when Race 'accidently' stumbled forward, sending the bucket of water in the air. The icy cold water hit Butterfly like a thousand icicles.  
  
Now it was Racetrack's turn to collapse into stiches. He could hardly control himself as he watched Butterfly sit on the floor, looking like a water rat, her half finished braid hanging matted to her back, and an expression of horror still on her face as she gazed at the bucket.  
  
"Oh...I...I'se so sahrry, C...Canada! I'se always b...been clumsy," he hooted. "N...need a towel."  
  
Butterfly took her eyes off the empty bucket and locked eyes with Racetrack, making him laugh only harder. The same look of shock was still on her face.  
  
"D...d'ya know dat if ya make dat face foah so long, dat it's gonna stay dat way?" he howled, dropping his head back on the floor.  
  
Butterfly responded with a small, sly smile. "I'se gonna git ya, Racetrack Higgins," she said softly.  
  
Race stopped his laughter and looked up at her. "What?"  
  
"Jist what I said. I'se gonna git ya."  
  
He started to rise to his feet. "Ya bettah not git me wet, Canada!"  
  
She took his lead and slowly rose to hers. "If gittin' ya means gittin' ya wet, den, me friend, ya gonna be wet as da ocean."  
  
Racetrack didn't even look back as he took off out of the bunkroom, hollering, "No way in hell you'se gonna git me!"  
  
"Ooh, you!" Butterfly squealed as she shot after him.  
  
Both pair of feet stampeded down the stairs with such a loudness that it caused a very cross Kloppman to stick his head outside his office and shout, "Hey, knock it down ya crazy kids!"  
  
Butterfly halted in her tracks to lock eyes with the man, letting just enough time elapse for Race to exit the lodging house. "Uh, yes sir!" she cried, before running out the door, not giving Kloppman time to reply.  
  
She stood on the top stair leading to the lodging house, searching for where he could have went. Her gaze scanned the other side of the street in front of her, and sure enough she saw him--slouching on a green bench and his chest heaving.  
  
Butterfly's grin widened as she darted across the street after him. Race stuck his tongue out at her before he jumped off the bench, and running around the side of it, made his was into the small grassy park that was located across the street from the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
When she reached the bench, Butterfly jumped over it, giving her enough flight to land down hard on Racetrack.  
  
Race felt the wind being sucked out of him as he hit the ground, and Butterfly landing on top of him didn't make it better.  
  
Butterfly hoisted herself into a sitting position. She rolled Racetrack onto his back and leaned over him, putting her arms on either side of his shoulders for support. "I'se got ya," she said simply.  
  
Race rolled his eyes and in one quick motion, he had Butterfly slung over his shoulder as he rose to his feet. "Looks like New Yawk has conquahed Canada. I'se got ya now."  
  
"Race-track!" Butterfly squealed, as he dropped her onto the bench, taking a seat beside her.  
  
"You'se a very audacious little goil, " he said, fishing in his pocket for a cigar.  
  
Butterfly rolled her eyes at him. "And ya wit astounds me, Col. Usin' big woids ta try an' impress a lady."  
  
Race was ever so thankful that he had his hands hiding his lower face from view as he lit his cigar, for he didn't think he could handle Butterfly seeing his face ignite again.  
  
Butterfly leaned back against the bench and tucked her legs underneath her. She began the task of finishing braiding her soaking wet hair.  
  
Race slouched in the bench, slinging his arms so they rested on the back of the bench. He cocked his head back and blew a perfect ring of smoke.  
  
Butterfly aimlessly platted her hair as she watched the ring of smoke as the slight breeze in the muggy air blew it higher and higher until it altogether disappeared. She turned to Racetrack, her eyes bright, "Col, can ya teach me how ta do dat?"  
  
He slowly turned his head towards her. "I will when ya stop callin' me Col."  
  
"Awh, Col," Butterfly said. "I'se will when ya stop callin' me Canada."  
  
"And da deal was I'se stop callin' ya Canada when I see dis damn Quebec restaurant."  
  
She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, den, I guess ya screwed...Col."  
  
Race bowed his head and had to smile. He turned back to her. "Alright, I'se show ya how."  
  
"Oh, good!" Butterfly cried, flipping her blonde braid over her shoulder.  
  
"Alright, look. Foist ya inhale on da cigah...I t'ink ya know how da do dat?"  
  
Butterfly nodded.  
  
"Den, ya gotta keep da smoke in ya mouth. Right? Den, ya jist blow..."  
  
"Blow?"  
  
"Yeah, blow..like ya blowin' in someone's ear." He then proceded a demonstration.  
  
"Oh, right. Jist blow," Butterfly said, taken aback  
  
"Got it?"  
  
Butterfly nodded her head.  
  
"Right, watch me." She watched as Racetrack inhaled on his cigar, and blew, releasing a perfect circle of smoke.  
  
Butterfly watched it disappear before she rolled her eyes. "Ha!" she spat. "I can do bettah dan dat tiny liddle t'ing ya made dere."  
  
Race took the cigar out of his mouth and handed it over to her. "Well, Canada, be me guest."  
  
She looked uncertianly at the cigar before she snatched it out of his hold. She looked at it for sometime.  
  
"Well?" Racetrack asked, a smile etched across his face.  
  
Butterfly rolled her eyes yet again as she thrust the cigar between her lips and inhaled deeply. She let the cigar fall from her mouth as she erupted into a harsh coughing spell.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Canada. You'se don't know da fine art of smokin' a cigah!" Race grinned, as he moved closer to Butterfly and pounded her on the back. "Ya alright?"  
  
Butterfly's coughing ceased and she looked up at Race with somewhat bloodshot eyes. "Yeah, I'se fine," she squeaked. "I jist need some watah."  
  
"Well," he said flipping her braid, "ya could drink da watah dat's still in ya hair!"  
  
"Ooh!" she snapped, swatting his hand away.  
  
Race backed away and held up his hands. "Calm down, goil! I didn't mean nuttin'!" He then stood up. "C'mon, we bettah be goin'. Ya don't want ta be missin' all da great sights of Manhattan, do ya?"  
  
He pulled Butterfly to her feet and started off across the dry grass, and Butterfly, soaking wet and with irritated eyes, hurrying to catch up with his long strides.  
  
************  
  
"What da hell rivah is dis?"  
  
"Dis, Canada, is Da Rivah."  
  
"Da Rivah?"  
  
"Yeah, it's what me friends and me call it. Whenevah we want ta swim we come ta dis rivah. Dat's all we know it as. Da Rivah."  
  
"Hum," Butterfly said thoughtfully as she scanned the charchol grey waters before them. They stood on the very edge of docks made of musty brown wood. Docks silimar to ones that brought back rather horrid memories, but Butterfly somehow pushed them out of her mind for the time being.  
  
"Yeah," Race said, reminicing, "Dis is where we all come durin' da summah. Jack and Mush and Blink and Snipeshootah..."  
  
Butterfly interrupted him. "Are dose ya friends?"  
  
He looked down at her, but her eyes sparkled so and took his breath away that he had to look away to the waters again. "Yeah, dey are, Buttahfly."  
  
"And dey all live at da lodgin' house?"  
  
"Course dey do, Buttahfly. Where da hell d'ya t'ink dey live, Mahs?"  
  
Butterfly was strangly softspoken. "I didn't know, Racetrack, 'cause I didn't know any of dem..."  
  
He looked at her, finally realizing what was bothering her. "Ya mean dat I didn't introduce ya to any of 'em?"  
  
Butterfly looked up at him, her one blue eye and one green eye glimmering.  
  
Racetrack put a friendly arm around her shoulder, shook her, and let out a laugh, "Silly Canada, 'course I wasn't gonna let ya live in da goddamn lodgin' house wit out introducin' ya to 'im. Tahnight at Tibby's ya can...meet 'em..."  
  
Race stopped his words short when he felt a hand go to his cheek. He snapped his head to Butterfly, who was examining his face with soft eyes.  
  
"What da hell are ya doin, Canada?" Race asked, his voice cracking.  
  
Butterfly only smiled and leaned closer to him. "Why, ya face is gettin' all red, Col."  
  
Racetrack tightly closed his eyes and cursed himself. He knew his whole body had to be as red as an apple. He opened his eyes again and his gaze fell on Butterfly. "Why da hell is ya hand on my face?"  
  
She let out a soft giggle. "Why, Colin dear, you still have some cigah ash on ya face from dis mornin'."  
  
Race moved closer to her, in spite of himself. "Git it off, will ya, Canada?"  
  
Now, their noses were only inches away. Butterfly still scanned his face. "I t'ink ya need some watah ta git it off."  
  
The last thing Race saw was her eyes locking with his and the wicked smile cross her face before he felt her hand fall from his cheek to his chest, as she pushed him into the river.  
  
Butterfly's high pitched, hysterical laughter meshed with the splash Racetrack made as he landed in the river.  
  
Race surfaced, treading water, a look of sheer horror on his face as he watched Butterfly in stitches, collapsed on the dock and pointing at him. He immediatly felt stupid. He had acted like such an ass. He actually had thought...  
  
Racetrack swam over to the dock as Butterfly crawled to the edge of it, still in hysterics.  
  
"Ya bitch!" he playfull snapped.  
  
"Oh...my...God. Ya...face...p..priceless!" she howled.  
  
Race rolled his eyes. "Ha ha ha, ya killin' me here, Canada. Now gimme ya goddamn hand so I can git da hell outtah here."  
  
"A...alright," Butterfly agreed, lowering her arm over the side of the dock.  
  
Race saw his chance. He took her hand, but instead of her pulling him up, he pulled her down. The look WAS priceless as Butterfly realized what was happening. She landed in the river with a clean splash.  
  
She surfaced, a look of utter suprise on her face. Now it was Race's turn to laugh. "I'se so sahrry, Canada! Where ya supposed to pull me up? I t'ought I was supposed ta pull ya down!"  
  
Butterfly's sly smile and diving under the water wasn't the reaction that Racetrack had wanted.  
  
"Where da hell did ya go?" he hollered, treading water in circles.  
  
His question was answered when he felt a tug on his left foot, pulling him under. He rose, sputtering, to see Butterfly a few yards away, wearing a gleaming smile and waving his left shoe. "Does dis belong ta ya, Col? I'se not sure?"  
  
Racetrack had to break out into a grin as he dove after her. "Give dat back, Canada!"  
  
Butterfly let out a squeal and disappeared into the warm water.  
  
Racetrack, having the unusual knack for seeing underwater quite well, was able to tackle Butterfly, grab his shoe, and bring her to the surface. He took the upperhand, and dunked her yet again. She flailed her arms under the water, and Race finally released his hand from her head.  
  
Butterfly bobbed to the surface coughing, sputtering, and out of breath. "Enough, enough!"  
  
"Are ya shoah, Buttahfly!" Race asked deviously, preparing to dunk her again.  
  
She furiously nodded. "Yeah, Race, I'se shoah, I'se shoah."  
  
"Alright," he simply said, grasping her hand on one hand and his shoe in the other and pulled her to shore.  
  
They both climbed onto the docks once more, both collasping, Butterfly first and Racetrack second.  
  
Race was lying on his back, listening when Butterfly's coughing turned to laughter. He turned towards her. "What now, ya crazy bitch?"  
  
Her wet hair and eyes gleamed in the sun, in the way only hers could. "I got ya. In da end, Col, I got ya."  
  
Racetrack turned away, her eyes still burning in his mind and her laughter in his ears. Butterfly James was right: she sure the hell did have him. 


	10. Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE  
  
Butterfly knew the pair of them must look like jackasses: standing outside Sheepshed Races and hysterical. Racetrack, because Sheepshed was like his home away from home and she trying to calm him down. Not to mention they were dripping wet and standing in the middle of very dry pedestrians.  
  
Race couldn't control his beaming. "Dis, Canada, is da best damn place in whole New Yawk!"  
  
Butterfly had a different opinion. She cocked her head at the building and tried to picture how someone could get so excited about a bunch of horses running in a circle. She couldn't see it.  
  
"What da hell is so great about it?"  
  
He looked at her incredulously. "Ya jokin', right?"  
  
Butterfly shook her head. "Nah, I'se as serious as da cigah ya smokin' right now."  
  
Racetrack, still looking at Butterfly as though she was some escaped lunatic ax murderer with blood dripping down her, a severed head in one hand, and an ax in the other, threw his cigar on the sidewalk and snubbed it out. "Well, den, you'se about ta see."  
  
He took her hand and, weaving through the people, went to the stand to place bets. An overweight bald man, his stomach bulging out of his too tight shirt, was behind the booth, his back facing Racetrack and Butterfly.  
  
Race cleared his throat.  
  
The man, who was eating a monstrous sandwich, still didn't recognize their presence.  
  
Butterfly's gaze flickered from the obese man to Racetrack, whose face was starting to burn up.  
  
"Hey, Tubby, can we get some goddamn soirvice here?" he snapped.  
  
Butterfly's mouth gaped and she looked incredulously at Race, but he never let his gaze linger from the man--only the grip on her hand get tighter. She glanced back to the very scary man, who had slowly turned around and was giving Racetrack a death glare.  
  
Butterfly thought she and Race would be dead that very moment.  
  
The man, who comically had mustard dripping down his chin and onto his shirt, lumbered over to the bar that separated he from the duo.  
  
"I said, can we git some soivice here, or do we have ta wait all day foah ya ta eat ya damn sandwich?" Race challenged.  
  
Butterfly's eyes widened and she stamped down on Race's foot. "Stop it, wiseass!" she hissed under her breath.  
  
Racetrack let go of her hand. "Shut it, will ya, Canada?" He stepped closer to the booth.  
  
"You can get service," the man growled. "What hoise d'ya want?"  
  
"Dat's moah like it," Race said, obviously proud of himself, as he read the odds posted on card that hung in the back of the booth. "Hum...Spitfiah has pretty good odds...Canada, git da hell ovah here! Ya gotta pick a hoise!"  
  
Butterfly, who still had her gaze locked on the obese, menacing man, was afraid to step forward. Racetrack finally spun around, grabbed her hand, and yanked her forward. "What hoise d'ya want?"  
  
"I don't have no money," she whispered.  
  
"It's okay. I won da whole lot of money in Brooklyn last night, it's on me. Now what damn hoise d'ya want?" Race said.  
  
Butterfly, under the man's hot glare, murmured, "Uh....Tropical Punch."  
  
Race looked incredulously at her. "Buttahfly, Tropical Punch has 14:1 odds, ya don't want dat hoise."  
  
She looked him straight in the eye. "Yes I do, Colin. I want Tropical Punch, Mistah."  
  
"How much?"  
  
"A nickel," Race growled, sliding the currency under the bars.  
  
The man took the nickel and slid Butterfly her ticket.  
  
"Hum....I want Spitfiah. Bettin' a nickle, too," Race finally said.  
  
The lumbering man exchanged the nickel for a ticket, before turning his back to them once again and returning to his sandwich.  
  
"And you have a nice day, too, sir," Race called.  
  
Butterfly didn't even turn around to see what the man's reaction was. She grabbed Race's wrist and tugged him out of there and into Sheepshed Races.  
  
When they reached the heart of Sheepshed, the looming white stands, Butterfly let out a nervous laugh. "Are ya always such a smartass? We could have been eatin' alive back dere!"  
  
Racetrack bowed, took one of her hands, and kissed it. "Mistah Colin Smartass Higgins at ya soivice!"  
  
"Oh, you ass!" Butterfly giggled, yanking her hand out of his grasp, sweeping his hat off his head, and swatting him across the face.  
  
Race retrieved his hat and looked around, inhaling a deep breath. "Welcome ta Sheepshed Races, Missus James."  
  
Butterfly let her eyes scan the structure. A track with a bunch of bleachers on one side of it and drunken or down on their luck people betting on horses. Right...  
  
Racetrack broke her thoughts as he took her hand and led her over to the middle section of seats behind a railing. he sat down and Butterfly did the same, her gaze surveying the track.  
  
"Ya know, Canada, it's a secret dat only a select few know dat da middle section is da best section," Racetrack said, trying to impress her with his extensive knowledge of trivia on racing.  
  
But Butterfly remained unimpressed. "Is dat why most people are sitting in the middle, Col?"  
  
Racetrack only stammered. It was true. The majority of the visitors to the races were in the middle section. "All hoidy-toidy..." was all Butterfly could hear him mutter under his breath.  
  
After a few boring minutes of staring at the track, the commentator's voice rocketed the stadium. Race perked up and grabbed Butterfly's upper arm. "Da race is about ta start, Canada!"  
  
Butterfly watched, as the commentator continued his crackling speech, the horsed get lined up in the gates. Race was pushed over the brink of excitement with every passing moment.  
  
"AND..."  
  
He stood up, his eyes locked hungrily on the starting gate.  
  
"...THEY'RE..."  
  
He leaned on the railing.  
  
"...OFF!"  
  
Race would have fell onto the seats below if Butterfly hadn't have pulled him back by his suspenders.  
  
The gate opened and a bell clanged.  
  
"Dere off, Canada! Dere off! See! See! Dere's dat goddamn hoise Spitfiah. 'e's in da lead!" Racetrack cried, jumping.  
  
Butterfly sat in her seat. "Dat's nice, Race."  
  
"AND THE FAVORITE HORSE TO WIN, SPITEFIRE, IS IN THE LEAD. HERE THEY COME AROUND THE BEND...SPITFIRE STILL IN THE LEAD...NOW IT'S BLACK BEAUTY THAT HAS THE LEAD...NOW SPITFIRE...NOW BLACK BEAUTY...NOW SPITEFIRE..."  
  
Racetrack jumped around as if he was having a seizure while Butterfly slouched in her seat, her eyes dully following the race.  
  
"IT'S SPITFIRE WITH THE LEAD STILL...IT'S BLA...NO, WAIT, IT'S...I CAN'T BELIEVE IT...PUNCH, TROPICAL PUNCH HAS THE LEAD..."  
  
At the mention of her horse, Butterfly leapt out of her seat and leaned on the railing.  
  
"TROPICAL PUNCH STILL HAS THE LEAD COMING INTO THE LAST STRETCH..."  
  
Now it was her turn to get hysterical. "Holy shit, Race, dat's me hoise! Dat's Tropical Punch! RUN, YA CRAZY BASTARD! RUN!!!!!!"  
  
Racetrack had long since become quiet. He watched as his horse moved to third place and Butterfly's to first...and as her horse crossed the finish line.  
  
"AND NUMBER 15, TROPICAL PUNCH, IS THE WINNER!"  
  
Boos erupted from the crowd as the horse favor to come in last place won. Butterfly was in shock, as was Race. He was the first to emerge from it as he clamped his hands on her shoulders and shook her.  
  
"Ya did it! Buttahfly, ya damn hoise won!"  
  
"Oh my God. OhmyGod. OHMYGOD! My hoise won! It won! I won!" Butterfly started to chant as she danced around Race.  
  
Race had to break into a grin. "Congrats, Canada. Now let's go claim ya money."  
  
Butterfly was in such a state of rapture that she didn't even mind going back to claim her money from the man Race had insulted earlier. He reluctantly handed her the winnings.  
  
"T'ank ya, Mistah! T'ank ya!" she cried, causing Racetrack to crack up.  
  
The man grunted and pulled the blind down over the booth.  
  
"C'mon, Buttahfly, we bettah be goin'. I'se starvin'," Racetrack said, pulling her away.  
  
"Can we go again, Race, can we go again?" she screeched, once they had exited Sheepshed Races.  
  
"'Course, Race smiled. Anytime ya want ta go back we can."  
  
"Den let's go back now!" she cried, tugging him back.  
  
He shook his head. "Nah, Can, not now. I'se hungry."  
  
Butterfly sighed as Racetrack took her wrist, pulling her away from her new passion, as she looked over her shoulder for one last look.  
  
*******  
  
"Central Pahk?"  
  
Racetrack nodded. "Yeah, Canada, Central Pahk. Aftah sellin' me papes, I always come here ta eat. Dere's a vendah dat sells da best 'otdogs in da woild here!"  
  
Butterfly was still in disbelief, but shrugged. "Alright, Col. If ya say so."  
  
"Please stop callin' me Col, Canada."  
  
"Please stop callin' me Canada, Col."  
  
Racetrack sighed as he marched across the lush grass of Central Park to the vendors, Butterfly rushing to keep up with his strides. "I nevah shoahs have told ya me name, Canada."  
  
Butterfly grinned. "I guess ya shoahdn't have, Col."  
  
After a few moments of silent walking, they reached the vendor. "Dere it is."  
  
A large, bright orange cart stood in front of them with a multicolored umbrella jutting up from it. A sign dangling on the cart proclaimed: THE BEST HOTDOGS IN NEW YORK.  
  
Looking at the racks of cooking hotdogs made Butterfly realize just how hungry she was. She ran ahead of Racetrack and over to the cart. "I'se gonna have t'ree 'otdogs, please!"  
  
A short, middle age man with a warm smile stepped out from behind the cart. "My, my, my, Miss, you must be hungry."  
  
Butterfly eagerly nodded her head as she thrust her winnings from the racetrack to the man.  
  
"Three hotdogs, is that?" the man asked, pulling three of them out of the roaster.  
  
He was about to take her money, when a voice yelled out, "WAIT!"  
  
Butterfly spun around to see Racetrack jogging towards the cart.  
  
"Wait, Tony!" he cried out again, coming to a halt beside Butterfly.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Racetrack?" the man asked.  
  
"Don't take 'er money."  
  
Butterfly looked at him, astonished. "Of course 'e'll take me money. I'se hungry!"  
  
Race shook his head while catching his breath. "No...I mean, I'll pay foah it."  
  
Butterfly turned around and handed the man her money. "Don't be foolish, Col. I'se got me own money..."  
  
Racetrack grabbed her wrist and pushed it against her again. "I'll pay foah it," he softly said, looking at her with glittering brown eyes that made Butterfly stop and wonder.  
  
He turned back to Tony. "She wants 't'ree? I'll have two. Give us five 'otdogs, please Tony."  
  
Tony smiled as he reached for two more hotdogs. "Very good, Mr. Racetrack."  
  
After the food was purchased, Racetrack led Butterfly over to a giant tree whose shade covered them from the broiling hot August sun. He sighed from exhaustion and collapsed against the trunk, Butterfly sitting cross legged beside him.  
  
"Here ya are, Canada," he said, handing Butterfly her three hotdogs.  
  
She watched as he bit down into his own hotdog and relished in the taste. His eyes met hers. "Dis really good," he said through a full mouth.  
  
"Ya didn't 'ave ta do dat, Racetrack."  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Ya know, pay foah me food back dere."  
  
"It's okah..."  
  
"No, I want to say t'anks," Butterfly genuinely said, her eyes glittering.  
  
Race knew that his face was heating up yet again. "Ah, stop being so goddamn mushy, Canada, and eat ya goddamn food befoah it gets cold."  
  
Butterfly grinned and moved closer to Race, to that he back touched the trunk of the tree also. "I'se so sahrry foah bein' so goddamn mushy and I'se gonna eat my goddamn food befoah it gets cold."  
  
"Oh, shut ya goddamn mouth!" Race laughed, looking at her.  
  
"Can, do, sir," she replied, taking a bit out of her food.  
  
Both weren't even on their second hotdog, when the exhaustion from the heat finally caught up with them, and they fell into deep sleeps--he with his back to the tree, hat tipped over his brow, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, and she with her back leaning on the side of his arm.  
  
**********  
  
"I wondah how long 'e's been sleepin'," Mush asked himself, as he stood towering over the two sleeping beings.  
  
Mush lightly kicked Racetrack's outstretched leg with his foot. "Hey, Race!"  
  
Race's snoring ceased and he woke with a jump, causing Butterfly, who was leaning against him, to fall on his lap, still asleep.  
  
He looked from her to Mush. "Mush, what da hell are ya doin'?"  
  
"Ah, nuttin'. Jist goin' ta Tibby's. It's almost evenin', Race. How long 'ave ya been here---wit her," Mush said with a devious grin.  
  
Racetrack furrowed his brow. "It's not like that..." Butterfly, breathing rhythmically, switched sides, so her face was now pointing towards Race. "Jesus Christ, goil, wake up!"  
  
Due to Race's shaking, Butterfly woke with a start. "What d'ya want?" she asked groggily.  
  
"Nuttin'..."  
  
"Den why in hell did ya wake me up? I was havin' a nice dream."  
  
"So sue me."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
Mush watched with amusement the bickering between his friend and the gorgeous blonde. Race caught his amused look and immediately stood up. "Will ya stop it, Mush! It's not what it seems."  
  
Mush didn't believe him. "Right, Race. Ya were jist out all day wit 'er because ya were showin' er 'round Manhattan, right?"  
  
"Right!" Race cried.  
  
Butterfly rose to her feet. "D'ya really t'ink I'd date an asshole like dis?"  
  
"Yeah," Race said siding with her. "D'ya really t'ink she's date an asshole like me?"  
  
Mush waved his arms in front of his face and let out a laugh. "Hey, hey, hey! I'se sahrry dat I'se even brought it up! All I wanted ta know is if ya wanted ta go ta Tibby's. I'se famished!"  
  
"Yeah, shoah Mush..."  
  
"I mean, it isn't my business if ya go cheating on ya goil..."  
  
"I said shoah, Mush!" Racetrack thundered, stamping hard on Mush's foot.  
  
Mush howled in pain as he hopped on one foot. "Alright, Race, alright. I didn't mean nuttin' by it!"  
  
But he did.  
  
**********  
  
"D'ya have ta take 'er away so soon?" Kid Blink whined.  
  
Butterfly smiled as she stood up and pushed in her chair. "Fraid he does," she yawned. "I'se tired."  
  
The majority of the newsies groaned.  
  
"Hey, hey, what da hell gives? She's gonna be stayin' at da lodgin' house wit us. Ya can see 'er den. I jist wanted ta introduce 'er ta all you'se," Racetrack exclaimed.  
  
"Well," Blink said, rising out of his chair, taking her hand, and kissing it. "If ya evah git bored wit ole, Racey here, which I bet will be by tahmarrah, ya jist ask foah Blink."  
  
Butterfly giggled as she released her hand from his grip. She and Race walked over to the door. "Well, g'night. It was really great ta meet ya all."  
  
"You'se too!" the majority said.  
  
"Hey, Buttahfly," Jack Kelly called from a booth. "If you'se asleep when I git back, g'night!"  
  
Butterfly only grinned, and her grin only got wider as the rest of the Manhattan newsies wished her an early goodnight. Racetrack had trouble pushing her out the door she found them so charming.  
  
The bell tinkled and the door to Tibby's closed.  
  
The stifling, muggy twilight hit both as they started the journey back to the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
"It is so damn hot out!" Butterfly exclaimed as she shucked out of her suspenders, leaving them hang loosely at her sides.  
  
"Right about dat," Racetrack replied, falling into step with her.  
  
There was silence for a few minutes before Race broke it. "So, uh, how d'ya like 'em?"  
  
Butterfly locked gazes with him, her smile as dazzling as her eyes. "Oh Lord, Race, dey all seem so great. Da whole lot of 'em! Aftah not having no one foah so long, and den having everyone, it's....breathtakin'."  
  
Race raised an eyebrow. "Breathtakin', is it, sweethaht?"  
  
"Oh, shut-up, ya jackass!" Butterfly grinned, playfully pushing him.  
  
Racetrack and Butterfly walked the remainder of the way to the lodging house trying to trip each other--Butterfly succeeding once.  
  
They dragged their heels up the stairs and her bunk looked like heaven to Butterfly. She contently sighed and prepared to fall down on her bunk and never wake when race said, "Hey, Canada, wanna see da best sight of Manhattan?"  
  
"What's that, Race?" she asked, catching herself and looking longingly at her bed.  
  
"Come wit me."  
  
Butterfly turned around to find that Race had lit up yet another cigar and had stripped out of his shirt and let his suspenders hand loose at his sides. She stood gaping at him.  
  
"What?" he asked, standing in the middle of the bunkroom.  
  
"N...nothin'," Butterfly stammered.  
  
A small, private smile formed on Race's mouth. "Well, den c'mon, Canada."  
  
Butterfly let Racetrack lead her out the window, up the fire escape, and onto the roof of the lodging house.  
  
"Welcome ta da best site in New Yawk, Canada!" he said, making a sweeping movement with his arm.  
  
She looked around, a light breeze sweeping the air and ruffling her hair. "Here?" she asked Race incredulously, who sat on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the end. "I t'ought ya said dat 'Sheepshed Races is da best damn place in New Yawk.'"  
  
The embers from cigar made a stark contrast with the darkening sky. "I did say dat, didn't I? Well, Sheepshed is me favorite place in da whole woild...but da goils like dis view."  
  
Butterfly rolled her eyes at the smug grin that formed over his mouth. "Awh, so what, Col, ya t'ought ya would bring me up here and I'se gonna fall madly in love wit ya jist cause ya showed me da New Yawk skyline? I t'ink not."  
  
Racetrack cocked his head to the side, dumbfounded. "Touché'."  
  
Butterfly mockingly bowed. "T'ank ya."  
  
A slight breeze filtered through the heavy air. Both relished the escape from the stifling heat before Race said, "Well, are ya jist gonna stand dere like a damn statue or are ya gonna see da view?"  
  
Butterfly was hesitant to join him on the edge of the roof. "I can see da view jist poifectly from here, t'ank ya very much."  
  
Race laughed. "Oh, c'mon, ya scared little goil!"  
  
She treaded over to the side, looking down. Her eyes grew wide. "Ya want me ta sit on da edge?"  
  
Race's grin widened. "Yeah, Canada, it's da best view. I won't let ya fall, promise."  
  
Butterfly felt something reassuring in his words and in his smile, so she dropped down next to him, keeping her eyes closed.  
  
Racetrack laughed. "C'mon, Buttahfly, open ya eyes. Foah a goil dat stood on da outside of da railin' of da goddamn Brooklyn Bridge, den da rooftop of da lodgin' house should be a piece of cake."  
  
Butterfly opened her eyes to see Race staring into hers with those kind of eyes that you could get lost in. That giving her courage, she looked in front of her and what she saw absolutely took her breath away.  
  
The New York skyline was ablaze with thousands of tiny lights, looking somewhat like fireflies trapped in the vast net of darkness. She glanced at Race with glittering eyes. "Oh, Race...it's beautiful."  
  
He gave her yet another gleaming smile. "I'se knew dat you'd like it, Canada."  
  
After panning the awe-inspiring scene before her, she turned back to Racetrack. She caught him staring at her with those eyes, those deep eyes. "So, ya come up here a lot?"  
  
Race nodded, blowing a series of smoke rings. "Yeah...I do. I come here ta t'ink. It always clears me mind..."  
  
"Whadda 'bout da goils?" she grinned.  
  
Racetrack looked taken off-guard by her slick smile. "Da goils?"  
  
"Yeah, ya said dat da goils like dis view."  
  
"I'se pos'tive ya don't wanna here a list of me conquests."  
  
"Oh," Butterfly said mockingly. "Ya conquests are dey? It wouldn't please me more but ta here ya list of conquests, Col."  
  
Race shook his head and swung his legs over the side of the roof, stretching them out in front of Butterfly and crossing them at the ankles. He inhaled deeply on his cigar. "Well, foist dere was Pauline..."  
  
"Oh, Pauline..." Butterfly commented, pretending to be interested.  
  
"Oh, ya bitch!" he grinned, swatting her knee.  
  
She took no heed to this an continued. "I t'ought ya had a list of conquests, Col. Now, who was Pauline?"  
  
"Da bakah's daughtah."  
  
"Da bakah's daughter. Who's next?"  
  
Race looked at her, his brown eyes glinting. "Rosemary," he finally said.  
  
"Ooh, Rosemary. And she was...?"  
  
"Snipeshootah's goil."  
  
"So ya doublecrossed ya friend, didya, Col? Not very good. Who's next?"  
  
"Jessey."  
  
"Jessey, Now, who was she?"  
  
"A goil I met at one of Spot's pokah games...now are ya done?"  
  
"Is dat da end of all ya conquests, Col?"  
  
Race sighed and shook his head. "No, t'ree more."  
  
"And dey would be..."  
  
"Katrina..."  
  
Butterfly opened her mouth to reply when she was cut off by Racetrack as he quickly said. "...who was a goddamn friend of Jack's and Annie Moiphy who is me goil."  
  
He gave her a hard look, which caused her to break into a smile as she crossed her legs, facing him. "And the thoid one?"  
  
Race shook his head. "Dere is no thoid one."  
  
"But ya said t'ree..."  
  
"Did I?"  
  
"Yeah, Col. So who is she?" Butterfly asked, leaning forward, her eyes glinting.  
  
Race held her gaze, inhaling on his cigar, trying to form the words. "It hasn't happened yet."  
  
"It hasn't happened yet?" she asked, cracking up into laughter.  
  
Racetrack looked at her with sharp eyes. "It's not funny in da least goddamn way when ya wit da poisin ya know ya should be wit and yet ya love anuddah poisin!"  
  
Butterfly's laughing immediately subsided as guilt washed through her. "Jiminy, Race, I'se really sahrry. I, uh, didn't mean ta pry," she said quietly, hopping down from the edge and heading for the fire escape. "I'se t'ink I'll go ta bed, now."  
  
Race watched, feeling blameworthy, as Butterfly's silhouette got dimmer and dimmer. "Hey, Buttahfly, wait!"  
  
Butterfly halted and looked over her shoulder. "Yeah, Race?"  
  
"Ah, Canada," Race stammered. "I...I didn't mean it. I'se jist actin' like a son of a bitch...I'se sahrry..."  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw in the very dim light Butterfly retake her seat next to him.  
  
She clasped her arms around her knees and rested her head on them, looking out at the flickering lights. "I'se sahrry. I'se was jist giddy...I guess. I mean, I really have friends. People dat said goodnight to me. It's been forevah since anyone said sat ta me..."  
  
Racetrack, feeling even guiltier, snubbed out his cigar and flicked it over the side of the roof. "I can undahstand. I mean, the time span aftah me family died and befoah I became a newsie...my life was basically horrible."  
  
Butterfly caught his gaze. "Ya family died?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"How?" she asked, but stopped when she saw the somewhat pained look on his face. "I mean...Jesus Christ! Dere I go again!"  
  
Race released a low laugh. "It's okay, Buttahfly."  
  
Racetrack had Butterfly's full attention, as she rest her chin on her knees and as her eyes glinted their last in the nearly full darkness. "Believe it or not...I ac'tually came from a wealthy family. Me muddah, faddah, and me sistah Lyn, we were really happy." He paused, as is reminising. "Anyway, I remembah one day me friend's dad took me to da coicus. I remambah dat it was great. Me and my friend, Bill, were watchin' da elephants when dis man came up to us. He looked really frantic and stahted whisperin' ta Bill's dad. Bill's dad pulled us out of da coicus, and I remembah bein really furious 'cause I wanted ta see da elephants, ya know? Anyway, I remambah bein' dropped off on da street dat I lived on. Dere was a lotta commotion goin' on and all. I looked foah my parents and Lyn, but I couldn't find 'em anywhere. So I stahted wanderin' t'rough all da commotion and I asked da foist bull I saw, "Where's me parents?'"  
  
He stopped. Butterfly noticed this and moved closer to him, nearly touching his side. "What happened, Race?"  
  
"I loined dat dat day we had had some new cook or sumptin'. She was cookin' sumptin' in da oven, and she left it boinin' foah too long and da house caught fire. Me whole family died. Even me toitle..."  
  
"Oh, Race," Butterfly said softly, putting a hand on his bare shoulder. "I'se so sahrry."  
  
"Dey all died. Me faddah, 'e had a law foim wit 'is bruddah. In me faddah's will it said dat da whole estate would go to me...but me uncle was in charge of da will and 'e was too goddamn greedy. He changed da will so 'e got eveyt'ing and I got nuttin' but being' kicked out on da streets."  
  
"Dat's horrible..."  
  
"I had it really rough foah a while. I'd always lived in luxury me whole life. But dat's when I met Jack...and he became me best friend and taught me how ta be a newsie." He locked gazes with Butterfly, even though he could hardly see her in the darkness that had fallen.  
  
"I'se sahrry..." she said quietly.  
  
Race let out a soft laugh. "But, hey. If I let it git ta me, I could nevah git on wit me life. 'sides, bein' a newsies ain't all dat bad. Aftah all, we shoah are free as fishes..."  
  
Butterfly was silent, as she comprehended Racetrack Higgins's story. She almost jumped out of her skin when he asked her, "So, what's ya life story?"  
  
She quickly turned her head towards his. Although she couldn't see him, she knew he was there. She proceded to tell him the truth, leaving the key factors out. "I can say dat I nevah was wealthy. Me muddah died givin' boith ta what was 'sposed ta be me youngah sistah Amy. Me faddah had been a drunk asshole foah as long as my mind would allow me ta remembah. Me bruddah, who was two years oldah dan me, was my guardian angel. He took care of me. When me faddah was out getting drunk all day and night, he woiked odd jobs ta provide da little 'e could foah me. When I was little, I always wandered about because I nevah wanted ta be home. Once in a blue moon, me faddah would come home, drunk as a skunk, and would beat me bruddah and me. When I was old enough ta woik, I did. I nevah evah wanted ta be home. Well, one day me faddah nevah came home. He and some oddah drunk had got inta some brawl in da bar and killed each oddah. It really wasn't a loss...'cept dat me bruddah and I had ta live on da streets poimenatly. It wasn't so bad. We met a group of street rats, too, and while dey would steal food ta eat, me bruddah would woik all day ta buy us food. He nevah let me steal any. He was dat good..."  
  
It was at that point that Butterfly, try as she might, broke into tears. "He was so good..."  
  
She felt a protective arm find its way to her shoulder and pull her close.  
  
"It's okay, Canada."  
  
"I lived wit me bruddah 'till jist about a few years ago, when dere was a spat and 'e was....moidahed," she told through tears.  
  
Butterfly felt all the memories rush back as her sobs became more intense. She fell against Racetrack. "I...h...ad t..ta fend foah m...meself. And..and I didn't have no money, s...so I stole some food, a..and dat sonofabitch S..snydah stuck me in da H..house of Re..fuge."  
  
"And den ya met me."  
  
The soft yet blunt words echoed in Butterfly's head, making her feel safe and protected, something she hadn't been since her brother's death. She didn't fight it off as Racetrack pulled her closer. She didn't care if he was doing that just to protect her or not, she wanted to be looked after. To have all the bad memories erased. To have Queens disappear.  
  
Butterfly James had had a broken past too, just like him. Just like the majority of newsies. Racetrack lent out a protective arm as he felt Butterfly go limp against him, her shoulders shaking under his arm and her tears trickling down his chest. He did the one and only thing that occurred to him at that moment--alone on the rooftop of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House in the pitch black, looking at the twinkling lights with the mysterious Butterfly James. He felt for her face in the dark, and gently pressed his lips to hers. She didn't struggle out of the kiss. The fire he felt in it only made the humid night more feverish.  
  
It was at that moment that Racetrack Higgins officially knew he had lost his heart. 


	11. Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN  
  
Horance Lyner let out a deep sigh-a sigh that seemed more like a growl coming from him.  
  
He continued pushing his way through the hurried pedestrians. He was becoming frustrated. The high August sun was starting to take its toll on him.  
  
Horance had begun his journey from Queens to Manhattan early that morning, and even then, the early sun was blazing. He had set out before Rylie had woken for he had no desire whatsoever to hear his brother's rants on his hatred of Sarah Sprites. He had already heard them plenty for the past two years, no scratch that, even longer than that. Since Jimmy Sprites had been alive and his sister at his side. But then Sprites had been killed and his sister run out. Rylie would occasionally gripe about her, but no more than that.  
  
His rants had taken a head when a group of newsies still loyal to Jimmy Sprites revolted against Horance and his brother. They actually took out some of his brother and his newsies. Rylie had warned them to stop, but they hadn't. So, he stopped them by putting a bounty on their beloved Sarah Sprites's head.  
  
Horance took his derby cap off his head and wiped the perspiration off his brow with his forearm. It sure was hot out. And it sure wasn't fair that HE had to go to Manhattan to track down Sprites and kill her. In fact, it wasn't fair at all, and all for the fact that he didn't want to murder Sarah Sprites by his own hands.  
  
If Jasper Johnson and Ulf Uberstein, who had been two of Horance's closest friends, had done the job right, then he wouldn't have to do it. And Rylie wouldn't be as furious. He was furious over the fact not that his newsies had killed an innocent girl, but that they had brought suspicion to Queens with their clumsiness.  
  
The heat was unbearable on Horance. He unbuttoned his plaid shirt as quickly as he could, revealing an overheated yet built chest. He quickly stuffed it in his back pocket, a back pocket which also contained Rylie's cherished knife-the knife Horance was to use to slay Sarah Sprites and she same blade that caused the fall of her brother.  
  
He let his hand linger on the hilt as he aimlessly wandered to Manhattan. All he could imagine at this moment was if he would really drive that blade into Sarah Sprites. He shook that thought out of his mind as he quickly let go of the knife.  
  
Rylie had told him not to fail. And there was a great possibility that that would occur. Rylie speculated that Sarah Sprites was in Manhattan just because of some thin story he had heard through the grapevine. Although he was noted for having a brain on his head, Horance had one too. Underneath all the force, he had a brain. What made Rylie so sure that she was in Manhattan? It was one chance in a million.  
  
Horance wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his arm once again. Even if Sarah Sprites was in Manhattan, he didn't look forward to murdering her in his own hands, anyhow. She had saved his life once.  
  
A few years back, Rylie had gotten into trouble with Midtown in a poker game. He had bet big and lost big. And he had't paid the debt. Horance had been walking about in the dark one night when he was struck over the head. It turned out that Midtown had sent their two most thuggish newsies to collect their money--and it really didn't matter which Lyner they snared.  
  
They had demanded their money, but Horance hadn't had any. He knew he probably would have been dead, if it hadn't been for Sarah Sprites showing up out of the blue. She surprised the two Midtown newsies by striking them in the back of the heads with a plank of wood and had actually drug Horance's 220 lbs. somehow back to Lyner headquarters. Although he had been drifting in and out of consciousness, Horance remembered that she had knocked quickly on the door and ran like hell out of there.  
  
Horance sighed and picked up his pace. His goal was to reach Manhattan by nightfall. And even if he did, he knew Sarah Sprites probably wouldn't be there. If he was her, he would be as far away as Queens as he could.  
  
The truth was that Sarah Sprites was indeed in Manhattan, although she wouldn't be there much longer.  
  
******  
  
Butterfly pulled away from the kiss.  
  
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispered heavily into Racetrack's ear, "Col, I wanna go somewhere where I'se can see ya."  
  
Race was taken aback. He was thankful for the blanket of darkness for her didn't want her to see the shade of scarlet his body had turned.  
  
In the darkness, his clammy hand found hers and he once again pulled her down the fire escape and through the window to the bunkroom. But there was something odd.  
  
"Where are all da guys?" Racetrack exclaimed.  
  
"Who cares about dem?" Butterfly replied, wrapping her arms around his neck and moving her mouth down to his throat.  
  
"BUTTAHFLY!" he exclaimed at he audacity.  
  
She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Ya don't like it?"  
  
"Oh, God no! I like it, it's just." he blurted, then caught himself. "It's jist."  
  
"Just what, Col?" Butterfly asked, running her finger down his chest.  
  
Racetrack stepped back. "It's jist dat I'se wit Annie."  
  
That didn't defer Butterfly. A gleam in her eye, she leaned forward and passionately kissed him. "Are ya shoah?" She stepped back.  
  
Racetrack groaned due to spite of his conscious. To give in or not to give in?  
  
Starting from her toes, Racetrack's eyes wandered up her whole body, his desire growing stronger every growing moment. He just couldn't resist temptation any longer when he saw the wicked gleam in her eye.  
  
"Screw Annie," he murmured, springing forward, grasping Butterfly in his hold, and kissing her with a fire.  
  
He roughly pressed her against a set of bunks, as one of his wandering hands found its way down her leg.  
  
His hands had already begun to unbutton her shirt as he pushed her down on his bunk. He was down to the last button, when it got stuck.  
  
"Goddamnit!" he hissed.  
  
Butterfly grinned and arose from the bunk, her hair wild and her eyes glittering at Race who lay sprawled on the bunk, hungry with anticipation.  
  
"Silly, Col. Can't even unbutton a silly button," she softly said as she undid the final button.  
  
Racetrack blinded by a high of ecstasy as she began to slide out of her shirt.  
  
A hard shake woke Racetrack Higgins.  
  
"Wake up, wake up, Higgins! Carry the banner! Sell the papes!"  
  
It couldn't be true and if it was he didn't want to believe it.  
  
"Wake up, Higgins!"  
  
Another shake caused Race to open one eye. The bespectacled face of Kloppman stared back at him. His other eye reluctantly opened.  
  
Then it hadn't been true.  
  
"Goddamn ya, Kloppman. I'se was jist havin' da best dream of me whole damn life!" Racetrack hissed, the unwelcome morning light finding his eyes.  
  
Kloppman only stepped back and chuckled. "Ya welcome, Higgins." He then moved on to rouse the next newsie in line.  
  
As Race sat hastily sat up, the regular morning sounds of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House invaded his ears. Yawns and grumbles. Snores about to be cut short by the coming of Kloppman and bargains for just five more minutes of sleep.  
  
Racetrack rubbed his eyes. He felt as though his whole body was drained from lack of sleep. What the hell had he done last night? He had been at Tibby's, then.then.on the roof with Butterfly.  
  
Awareness immediately found him as his head snapped to Butterfly James's direction. Kloppman had just woken her, and her eyes fluttered open to meet the fledgling sun's first rays. Propped up on her elbow, she ran a hand through her tangles of yellow hair. She seemed to still be in a state of sleep until her gaze locked with Racetrack's.  
  
Racetrack felt as through the utter air he breathed was stuck somewhere in his throat. He didn't know how to react to her.  
  
Her eyes grew wide. Looking into that burning gaze, Race remembered it all. His listing off of his conquests, the tellings of the pasts, and.the kiss.  
  
It brought chills to him that very moment.  
  
Butterfly swung her legs over the side of the bunk and wearily rubbed her eyes. A tired smile crossed her face. "Good mornin' Colin Higgins. Have a good sleep?"  
  
Racetrack could only stare into her eyes. What the HELL was wrong with him? He had know Butterfly James less than three days, knew almost nothing at all about her, except that he was head over heels.  
  
"So, whattah ya plans tahday?"  
  
He snapped back to reality. "Huh?"  
  
Butterfly giggled. "Silly, Col! I axed what are ya plans tahday? I mean, ya probably bored wit me already."  
  
A grin crossed Race's face as he slowly stood up, stretching his arms over his head. "Coise I'se bored wit ya, little goil. But I need ta teach ya how ta sell papes if ya gonna stay here."  
  
A look of absolute bewilderment crossed her face. "Be.be a newsie again?"  
  
Racetrack lifted an eyebrow. "Again?"  
  
Butterfly winced at her stupidity. "No.I mean, ya want me ta be a newsie?"  
  
"No, Canada, I'se want ya ta be da Queen of England. Coise ya have ta be a newsie, what da hell else?" he asked, spinning on his heels and heading towards the washroom.  
  
Butterfly sprang off her bunk and scrambled after him. "But do I have ta be a newsie?"  
  
"No, Canada," Race replied, disappearing into the washroom. "Unless ya can find anuddah job."  
  
Butterfly let out a long groan as she prepared to go into the washroom, but quickly flattened herself against the wall near the door when Race called out, "I wouldn't come in here, Canada! Dere are some newsies who ain't decent."  
  
Not willing to risk seeing any newsboys au naturel, Butterfly emitted a sigh and flopped back on her bunk. Seeing a comb laying on of the dressers, she picked it up and started to absent-mindedly untangle her hair.  
  
Be a newsie again. She had renounced the profession of a newsboy-girl- unofficially that moment her body hit the water of the East River in the staggering hot summer of 1897 with Rylie Lyner's words ringing in her ears.  
  
Butterfly set the comb back in its rightful place on the dresser. That brought her from her past to her current situation. The past few days had been such a whirlwind that she had almost completely forgot that she had a bounty on her head by the most feared band of newsies on New York. At least no one had found out who she was.  
  
"Are ya gonna keep starin' inta outahspace or ya gonna come sell papes wit me, Canada?"  
  
"Huh?" Butterfly cried, blinking.  
  
Racetrack stood in front of her, lighting yet another cigar and placing his derby cap on his brow.  
  
"But I don't wanna be a newsie!" she whined with sincerity.  
  
Race only chuckled as her surprised her by grabbing her wrist and pulling her to her feet. "Den whaddah ya wanna be, Buttahfly James?"  
  
"Rich!" she said truthfully.  
  
Racetrack only snorted as he presented another derby cap to Butterfly by grabbing her tangles of hair and stuffing them inside the hat.  
  
Butterfly jumped back, causing the cap to fall to the ground. "What's dat foah?"  
  
Smoke escaped from his nostrils. "I'se sahrry ta 'ffend ya, Canada, but dere jist are no goil newsies."  
  
Butterfly's eyes glinted and her face exclaimed stubbornness as she crossed her arms over her chest. "I'se not wearin' it!"  
  
"Den ya can find annudah profession!" he retaliated.  
  
Butterfly let out a sigh and rolled her eyes as she picked the fallen up with one quick sweeping motion. With one snap of the wrist, her hair was twisted into a bun and she fitted the cap onto her head. "How do I look?"  
  
Racetrack looked her over from head to toe, his index finger and thumb on his chin.  
  
"Well?" she exclaimed.  
  
"Like Blink's bruddah if ya had da eye patch!" he laughed.  
  
"Oh, you!" she cried, yanking the cap off her head and springing forward.  
  
Racetrack only let out a cry as he turned and, winding his way past the newsies, darted out of the bunkroom, Butterfly on his tail.  
  
******  
  
"Dis, Weas, is me friend James. 'e's a new newsie. Give 'em fifty papes."  
  
Weasel's unbelieving eyes wound their way down Butterfly's body and back up again until their gazes locked. "Looks too scrawny to be a boy."  
  
Fury coursed through Butterfly. She leapt forward, reaching her arms in between the bars in an attempt to grab the grubby man and break his face.  
  
Racetrack jumped from astonishment at Butterfly's reaction and wrapped his arms around her waist, stepping back and pulling her away from the bars.  
  
Weasel exchanged glances with Morris. "Feisty little newsie."  
  
"Say dat again, ya smelly son of a bitch!" Butterfly yelled.  
  
Weasel only let out a chuckle and looked at Butterfly with smug eyes. "Fifty papes to the wise ass."  
  
Racetrack gave Butterfly a sharp shove to collect her papes from Morris. As the tall, gangly man handed them to her, he let out a deep, idiotic laugh.  
  
But Butterfly's mood at this particular moment was not one to be toyed with.  
  
"Go suck an egg, ya asshole!" she called over her shoulder.  
  
Racetrack didn't even wait for Morris's reaction as he grabbed Butterfly tightly by the collar and pulled her out of the distribution center.  
  
She fidgeted out of his grasp and stood facing him, her eyes narrowed and burning.  
  
Racetrack was speechless for words. "What da HELL was dat back dere?"  
  
"Whaddya mean?" she snapped.  
  
"I mean," he spat, lightly smacking the back of her head, "Ya told off Weasel! Ya nevah evah tell off Weasel no mattah how big an asshole he may be!"  
  
Butterfly James, usually being a very level headed person being able to take a ruse, let the temper that had been struck get the best of her. "I'se can do whatevah da fuck I want, Racetrack Higgins. I don't need ya ta show me how ta sell goddamn papes. I mean, a goddamn four year old could sell papes!"  
  
And with that, Butterfly stormed off through the pedestrians, her whole body radiating with fury.  
  
Racetrack watched her and at first decided to let her go, but soon chased after her and finally caught up with her long strides.  
  
He put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around. Her burning face made a stark contrast with the golden wisps of hair that had fell out of the coverage the cap provided.  
  
"Jesus Christ, little goil, what da hell kinda tempah d'ya have?"  
  
In spite of her wrath, Butterfly let out a snort. She put a hand to her burning cheek. "God, Racetrack, I dunno. It's jist dat I can't stand when people insult me.especially me history wit smartass pape distributahs."  
  
"You'se have a history wit newspapah distributahs?" Racetrack asked incredulously.  
  
Butterfly's eyes opened in shock. "No, I mean me bruddah's history."  
  
"Ya bruddah was a newsie?" Race asked.  
  
Butterfly knew she should just keep her mouth shut. "No!"  
  
"No?"  
  
"I mean, yeah."  
  
"Which is it, Buttahfly?"  
  
"He was a newsie."  
  
"What was his name, Can? I might have known him."  
  
Now Butterfly knew she had really stuck her foot in her mouth. Stupidass, stupidass, stupidass! her mind scolded.  
  
"Ya wouldn't have known him," she stammered.  
  
"Try me. I'se know a lot of newsies," Racetrack said, obviously waiting for an answer.  
  
Butterfly knew she was in a jam. She was stunned that it just didn't occur to him that she was Sarah Sprites at that very moment. But it didn't, and she did not know how to respond to the question.  
  
Butterfly's gaze quickly flickered down both ways of the street, Racetrack's eyes boring into her.  
  
"His name, Canada?" he asked.  
  
"Uh, uh." Butterfly stammered. Then she did the only thing that occurred to her. "Look, Race, look! It's Teddy Roosevelt!"  
  
That almost caused Race to drop his papes. "Where, where, Canada!" he cried, searching amongst the pedestrians for any sign of him. There was none whatsoever.  
  
"Hey, what's da big idea.Canada," he asked, as he turned back to face Butterfly only to find that she wasn't there.  
  
***** "Hey, Col?"  
  
"Hey, Can."  
  
"Why didn't da skel'tin cross da road?"  
  
"I'se give up, Can, why didn't 'e?"  
  
"Cause 'e didn't have no guts! Git it?"  
  
Racetrack only shook his head. "Clevah little goil. Where didya hear dat stinkah?"  
  
Butterfly giggled and playfully pushed him. "Col! An old friend told me dat."  
  
Race couldn't help himself. "And if I'se ax foah his name, ya won't go runnin' off, Can, will ya?"  
  
He saw her face heat up. "I told ya, Col. I'se really did t'ought dat I saw Teddy Roosevelt, and den I jist went off da sell some papes."  
  
He nodded his head. "Right, Can, whatevah ya say."  
  
"No, Col, it's true," Butterfly said, linking arms with him. "I sweah on me faddah's grave! I jist t'ought dat I could sell a pape."  
  
Racetrack broke from her grasp and looked her in the eyes. "Den go sell one right now!"  
  
Butterfly's eyes reflected the challenge. "Alright, Mistah Smartass! I don't need ya help ta sell a pape!" She departed him.  
  
"Like ya said, Canada, a four year old could sell papes!" he hollered to her, cupping his hands around his mouth.  
  
Butterfly didn't even look back as she leapt onto a bench and held up a pape, hollering the headline: "EXTRA, EXTRA, EXTRA! POLITICAL LOVENEST! MAYAH SEEN WIT UNDAHAGED GOIL AFTAH DAHK!"  
  
That little ditty sold three of Butterfly's papes. Smugness radiating off her face, she strutted back to Racetrack with a smile.  
  
He was astonished. "Where da hell is dat headline?" he asked, flipping through one of the papes.  
  
Butterfly touched her index finger to a microscopic article that read MAYER'S NIECE COMES TO VISIT.  
  
He lifted his eyes to her sparkling ones and found that he had a newfound respect for Butterfly James. "Where did dat come from?"  
  
"Oh, nowhere," she replied, twisting a stray hair around her finger. Her eyes met his once again. "Livin' on da streets, Racetrack Higgins, ya loin ta improve da truth jist a bit."  
  
Racetrack's feeling were reconfirmed just by looking into her playful eyes. He leaned closer to her. "Improve dis." he said softly, leaning in even closer yet. But he pulled back with a jerk as he felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around his neck and the sultry, throaty voice whisper in his ear. "Hey, Racey."  
  
He knew the voice at once. He lifted his eyes to Butterfly, who was staring at the intruder over his shoulder with an expression of surprise.  
  
"Annie," Race flatly said, slowly turning around.  
  
And Anytime Annie Murphy it was. Standing there like some devil in a red dress, her crimson spirals hanging about and her lips just as dark, she stepped closer to him and whispered in her low voice, "Miss me?"  
  
She then proceeded to throw her arms around him and kiss him passionately. Racetrack struggled out of the kiss and broke away. He spun around to see Butterfly staring at him with confusion in her odd eyes. All the things he wanted to say, but he could say none.  
  
"Oh, Racey dahlin'," Annie cooed, running her hands through his hair in the effect that his derby cap fell to the ground. "I'se so sahrry dat I couldn't make it to Spot's pahty. I bet it wasn't da same witout me."  
  
"No, it wasn't," he murmured with out emotion, his gaze still locked on Butterfly, Butterfly with her hair tucked up in that silly derby cap and the papes resting on her shoulder.  
  
"Well, if ya want, Racey, ya can fahget 'bout sellin' ya little papes and we can have our own pahty," she whispered into his ear.  
  
When he didn't respond, her gaze fell over her shoulder and onto Racetrack. "Oh, Racey, who's ya little friend?"  
  
Speaking more to Butterfly than Annie, Racetrack said apologetically, "Annie, dis is Buttahfly James. Canada, dis is me goil---Annie Moiphy."  
  
He felt Annie's arm reach over his shoulder as she held it out to Butterfly. "Why hello, little goil."  
  
Racetrack knew Butterfly's temper had been struck again, by the way her cheeks turned scarlet and the way her eyes started to harden. She purposely spit in her hand and held it out to Annie's.  
  
"Ugh." Annie said in disgust. "What da hell are ya doin'?"  
  
"Dat's da way newsies shake hands, Annie," Racetrack informed.  
  
"Oh, well, dat's okay. I'se shoah dat we'se properly 'quainted anyhow." She then turned her attention back to Race by whispering low in his ear. "C'mon, Racey. Let's go have our own pahty."  
  
Race was quick to object. "But what about Buttahfly?"  
  
Before either party could respond, Butterfly had her own say. "Dat's alright, Race. You jist go and have a fun pahty. I'se gotta sell me papes anyway."  
  
And with that she spun on her heel, Racetrack's watching her until she disappeared, leaving he and Annie all alone.  
  
******** A light, feathery zephyr slithered through the open window of the bunkroom, its cold weightlessness dancing on Butterfly James's face for a few moments, blowing the free strands of her half platted hair about her face. And as quickly as it had come, it disappeared, back out the window to join the North wind that was circulating throughout and about New York City.  
  
Butterfly sighed; completing the plat and throwing the long, golden flaxen braid over her shoulder, the ends falling to the lumpy mattress of the moth eaten bunk. She emitted a longer, more sorrowful sigh, curling her knees to her chest and resting her head on them. She tried to fill her brain with blank mental pictures, trying to push away the two words with four- syllables that kept haunting her mind like a shadow that wouldn't fade into light. It was frustrating, for her psyche would not cooperate.  
  
Racetrack Higgins.  
  
She groaned, falling back against the rough mattress, the springs squealing under her weight.  
  
Racetrack Higgins.  
  
She let out a soft moan of unhappiness, placing her left index and middle finger to her lips, still remembering the lingering sensation of the smooth and salty taste of his lips pressed against hers. Remembering the haunting pulse of the fever brought on yes perhaps by the muggy summer twilight, but by the passion in the touch. Remembering the way her stomach so impossibly churned with a vengeance at the way their sticky sides touched and they way his raspy voice and hot breath skittered across her cheek under the velvety sky and cold stars.  
  
Butterfly's eyes closed and she imagined him there, beside her, on her, kissing her, inhaling in his breath that smelled strangely sweet of nicotine and dated alcohol. A smile lit up her lips as she murmured his name.  
  
Then reason quickly invaded her mind and her smile faded and eyes opened. What in the hell was she thinking? Here the most malicious newsie she had ever known about wanted her crucified. She should be hiding in the center of the earth, quaking and shaking in fear that Rylie Lyner might find her. But here she was, in the goddamn Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House practically having the woman's equivalent of a wet dream about a chain- smoking, horse race loving Italian that she had only known for a few days.  
  
She quickly sat up, banging her head off the upper bunk and uttered a curse.  
  
What had happened in the past week? Just a few days ago she had been in the House of Refuge, after waiting patiently for what seemed like ages for some idiot who was stupid enough with dreams to escape to bring a screwdriver, then be set free. It was only a matter of time before she got it, waiting for the perfect time. Then he had to come along, that damn Italian, and make her rescue him. And then it was his turn to rescue her. And then he just had to call her "Can" and make her knees buckle with euphoria and carry her home from Brooklyn and then play footsie with her in the river and then kiss her! Why did he have to kiss her?  
  
She had always been your average flirt and heartbreaker in Queens, but then it had all been a game. See how many guys you can make get hard-ons! Beat your quota from yesterday and win! But now, with Racetrack Higgins, things were different. The pangs in her heart and stomach and head were all very new to her. Breaking down and absolutely sobbing her heart out to a fellow human being was also a first. Why did he have to make her feel so damn emotional?  
  
Absentmindedly, her hands went to the now very loose braid as she began to pull it out. Yet, what did all this mean? He had Annie. That little bitch. If it walks like a slut and talks like a slut and dresses like a slut then chances are it is a slut. All the other newsies were eating supper and discussing the humid day at Tibby's. Was Race with them? But what did he see in her? Was he going with her just to get laid? From the rumors that Butterfly had heard, Anytime was fucking everyone except Race.  
  
So, why was he with her?  
  
As many times as she racked her brain in pure frustration for an answer, all efforts came up futile. Pulling out the last twist, she shook her head, allowing her sun-kissed hair to stream down her back. She sighed, Skiddy Sniper's face and sharp blue eyes suddenly entering her mind. A sad smile crossed Butterfly's lips as she felt the sharp, bitter tears start to form. In all honest-to-God truth, she missed Queens with a passion. With a vengeance. She missed acting like a fool with Skiddy, playing cute with the other newsies, and most of all she missed Jimmy.  
  
Her eyes closed, and she felt the first painfully hot tear start to trail her cheek when she heard the slamming of the door. She felt her heart leap into her mouth as she uttered a gasp; her eyes flying open. There in the doorway stood none other than Racetrack Higgins, face pale, cheeks scarlet, mouth open, breathing heavy, cap askew.  
  
It was a truly odd blend of emotions, for Butterfly felt the pangs start in her stomach as she felt the iciness in her heart over her missing Queens stark with the hotness of the tears which slide down her cheeks.  
  
"Wh-why aren't y-you whi---with the ah-odduah boys at-at Ti-bby's?" she sobbed, desperately trying to control her tears.  
  
Racetrack's burnt umber eyes widened in disbelief and concern as he strode over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. "Ah, Can, why ya cryin'?"  
  
She bowed her head, not wanting him to see her face, her weeping coming out in chokes. "I miss Jimmy!"  
  
"Ah, Can," Race cooed empathetically, pulling her close, dropping his hands to her waist.  
  
She collapsed into him, the pangs overtaking her entire body as a sudden thought erupted in her head: Last night it was dark and I was crying hysterically and he kissed me. This night its dark and I'm crying hysterically and Race, do you think we could have an encore?  
  
As if deliciously on cue, Butterfly felt Racetrack slip his fingers under her chin and raise it. He then pressed his lips to hers, surprising her so that she fell gloriously into him. After the initial shock wore off, she returned the favor, tasting the salty tears and the fresh nicotine that was being exchanged. She parted her lips, savoring the taste of his, throwing her arms around him and dashing his cap to the splintered floor. Sparks and colors erupted into her head and she let out a soft sigh as his hands either raked through her hair or down her back.  
  
It was Racetrack that pulled away, leaving Butterfly still yearning, eyes closed, for that wonderful, feverish temptation once more.  
  
"I'se hung'ry. Gonna jist wash me face den we can meet up wit da odduh guys at Tibby's."  
  
Butterfly's eyes opened, one jade and one sapphire unblinking, to take in Race and his devilish saintly smile before he bowed his head and turned, striding into the washroom.  
  
She was paralyzed in pure shock for a moment, until the numbness wore off and she collapsed on his bunk. She had just experienced something that she never had before. She had returned a kiss for the first time.  
  
Eliciting a pleasure-stricken sigh, she fell back on his bunk, her arms outstretched on either side of her on the sheets. But her thoughts were soon disbanded when the hand that found its way under his pillow that felt something like a newspaper.  
  
Curiosity overtaking her, she sat up and unsheathed the newspaper from the pillow. Lazily unrolling it, her mind still erupting and Cheshire-cat smile on her lips, her eyes immediately fell to the blaring headline: BRUTAL HOMICIDE OF WEALTHY NEW YORK SOCILITE"S DAUGHTER.  
  
It was she had read the last word that she felt an overwhelming mix of fear, sickness, and dread sweep over her.  
  
"Oh my God!" she whispered, staring at the picture of the girl with the flowing blonde hair. "Dey're aftah me. Dey know I'se in Manhattan. Dey already killed dis goil. Dat could have been me."  
  
She couldn't comprehend it, and panic overtook her as she sprang off the bunk. "Jesus Christ, dey know I'se here! I have ta git out of here!"  
  
With that, Butterfly threw the newspaper on the bunk and prepared to dash out the door and leave New York forever when she heard the voice say, "Who knows ya here, Canada?"  
  
She quickly whirled around to see Racetrack's beaming face, his hair newly damp.  
  
She pointed to the paper. "When is dat papah from?" she stammered.  
  
Race, worry crossing his face, walked over to his bunk and looked down at the paper and then to Butterfly. "It's from yestahday, why Canada?"  
  
"Goddamnit!" she said, her voice cracking and tears finding the corners of her eyes.  
  
Racetrack, noticing her upset state, strode over to her and placed his hands on his shoulder. "What's goin' on, Can?"  
  
She shook her head. "I gotta git outtah here. I gottah git out of here."  
  
He wore an expression of astonishment. "Leave? Buttahfly, what da hell are ya talkin' about?"  
  
"Dey aftah me, Race, dey aftah me, Race. I was such a moron ta stay in New Yawk! I shoahd have left when I had da chance. I have ta go!" she sobbed, breaking from his grasp and stepping backwards.  
  
But Racetrack grabbed her wrist. "Buttahfly, ya ain't goin' nowhere but ta Tibby's wit me. Now what d hell is ya problem?"  
  
Butterfly shook her head and tried to yank out of his grasp, but he wasn't budging. "Lemme go, Racetrack! Lemme go!"  
  
"No!" he replied heatedly. "I can't jist let ya go like dat, James!"  
  
"Yes ya can!" she cried, continuing her attempts to break free. "LET ME GO!"  
  
Racetrack literally had to pull backwards to stop Butterfly from getting loose. "Buttahfly, what is ya problem? I'se can't let ya jist go like dat, I'se involved!"  
  
"Ya ain't involved, Higgins!" she struggled. "Let me go, now!"  
  
"No!" Race said with equal strength. " I won't let ya go out of me life."  
  
Butterfly stopped her struggles long enough to look into Racetrack's deep eyes, his eyes that were filled with worry and confusion.  
  
Tears running down her cheeks, she whispered, "I'se so sharry, Race."  
  
Race didn't have time to respond before her free hand, in the form of a fist, rocketed across his chin, causing him to fly backwards. This let her free, and with out looking back, Butterfly James ran out of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, leaving racetrack Higgins sprawled on the ground with a very sore chin and a very confused mind. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

Note From Author: I know that this Chapter was really short, but I didn't want to combine this one with any others. The next chapter will take place in Brooklyn and then after that things will come to a head and then hopefully I should finish this story!  
  
CHAPTER ELEVEN  
  
The day was glaringly white and breathless; the bright flaxen sun hazy in appearance, sitting in its sky like a king on his throne. One iota of movement caused a flood of perspiration, leaving the streets barren, as through tumbleweed should come skittering down the main drag.  
  
Racetrack Higgins found semi-relief from the staggering, smoldering heat at Tibby's: seated near one of the tables in the front, chair pushed out, elbow leaning on scratched hardwood table, soda flat. Jack Kelly's blinking subsided for a moment, as he watched in a trace-like state as the fellow newsie lazily used his straw to stir circles in his drink.  
  
"But da way she kissed me back, Cowboy, in da way she kissed me back. So much fiah and passion."  
  
Jack blinked and jumped, his gaze falling to Racetrack who still stared at his glass. "Yeah, Race. Dat's why dere's dat sayin': Can't live with goils and can't live witout 'em." Every word was painful to utter in the scorching heat.  
  
Race let out a deep rumble of a sigh and removed his straw from his soda, droplets permeating the table. "I don't undahstand it, I jist don't. I really, really liked her and I don't know what da hell kind of signals I was givin' out or what.But, Jesus, I never expected her to kiss me back."  
  
Jack stared into his friend's deep brown eyes, eyes that begged for an answer. Jack elicited a sigh as he pushed his cowboy hat over his brown, making makeshift shade. "I'se dunno, Race, I'se dunno. Didn't really follow dat goil's story from da beginnin'. I mean, why da hell did she want to stay here anyhow? You didn't know her at all, and yet she came to you. Sounded fishy. But ya fall for her. Now, I'se could say dat ya were t'inkin wit your dick or that old proverb love at first sight came true. Knowing you, I'd say it was a little bit of both."  
  
This didn't evoke the comical reaction that Jack had hoped for. Instead, Racetrack wore an even more sorrowful expression as his chair scratched the floor as he pushed it back, stretching out his right arm on the table and laying his head on it. "I jist don't see why she left. She was actin' strange, dough. Got all scared when she saw da pape about da moidahed goil. Said dey knew she was here and had ta git out. Ramblin', I guess. But what da hell does it all mean? Den oilier something slipped dat her bruddah was a newsie. Dat I wouldn't have known him. Made me think. She could sell a pape poitty damn good." A solemn grin lit up his face as his eyes shifted to Jack. "But when she saw dat pape, it made me think. Think about Queens. And Jimmy."  
  
Jack half-heartedly pulled the hat somewhat off his eyes, letting out a snort. Queens. Jimmy. Obviously, Racetrack hadn't heard the word that Rylie had put a bounty on Sarah Sprite's head, be she alive or be she dead. The comical thing being she could be some rotting cadaver infested with parasites and decay. And he also musn't have heard about the rumors that Hornace Lyner was in Manhattan. Searching desperately and with a vengeance for a girl, a girl with long blonde hair and one green eye and one blue eye. Jimmy's sister: Sarah Sprites. Odd enough that just before word had gotten to him that Rylie had put a bounty of Sarah's head, along comes some mysterious girl with the first name of Butterfly, the name Jimmy used to call Sarah, and the last name of James, Jimmy's name, with blonde hair and one blue eye and one green eye.  
  
A thin smile formed across his shaded lips as he stare down at Racetrack. No, Racetrack must be too damn stricken for this Butterfly James not to realize how perfectly the pieces fit into place. Of course, it made sense why she had run away. She knew Queens was in Manhattan, searching her out like prey. They had killed and tasted blood and that would not stop Rylie from killing again. When Sarah Sprites was dead, the remainder of Jimmy's Lyner converts would be too full of shock and utter disbelief that he had killed Sarah to argue or revolt anymore. No, she was hiding to save her skin.  
  
Yet, Jack only wished that he had figured this out before she left. Then of course he could have kept her quiet and hidden her. But now, she was gone, dodging Lyner like a sickening, grotesque game of cat and mouse, not knowing when he was going to strike.  
  
The chair let out a high-pitched awful screech as the chair scraped the ground. Racetrack wearily stood, his joints creaking, clothing sticking to him. Groaning he said in a husky voice, "I'se gotta go pay foah dis," motioning to his drink.  
  
Jack wistfully nodded as he watched his friend make his way through the masses of downtrodden, exhausted patrons, cracking his joints and relieving his muscles along the way.  
  
Jack straightened in his chair, pushing his hat off his brow. He knew Race was suffering fantastically from not knowing where in the heavens Butterfly James was cashed. Stretching his arms over his head, his exhausted joints creaking he snorted again. He had stayed at Brooklyn last night after an exclusive poker game with Spot went too seep into the muggy summer night. He had slept in the mate bunk of the Spot's and had been there when the girl arrived in early morning, not quite the time when the cold stars reigned and not quite when the sun shown its glorious face. He had seen her face and recognized her as Butterfly. Yet he had slipped away before she could take notice of him.  
  
Butterfly James was in Brooklyn. How she knew Spot was beyond her.  
  
"Sarah, what are ya doin' in Brooklyn?" he muttered softly to himself, standing and pushing in his chair, dropping a few coins on the table.  
  
Race joined him, perspiration staining his tired face. "Let's go, Cowboy," he murmured listlessly, ambling easily and heavily out of Tibby's.  
  
Jack paused a moment, pondering whether or not to include Racetrack in the knowledge of Sarah Sprites whereabouts. He shook his head. Race would only go to Brooklyn, spilling more spotlight on her as there already was. This was something that Race couldn't keep quiet about; let him figure it out on his own.  
  
With a lazy sigh, Jack joined Racetrack outside in the crackling heat, the bell tinkling as the door closed behind him.  
  
With the chirping of the bell, the patron residing at the table adjacent to the newsies slowly laid down the paper that he once held in front of his face. His face dripped perspiration and his garments clung to his muscular, bulging physique.  
  
A hand absent-mindedly went to his back pocket, clasping around the hilt of a blade stained with dark maroon. His piercing blue eyes were a macedoine of glassy emotions. He dropped the paper and raised himself, striding through the café and through the door, inhaling in the smoldering scent.  
  
A sardonic smile slithered its way up his lips. "I got her Rylie. I got her. She's in Brooklyn." 


	13. Chapter Twelve

Note from author: Racetrack gets drunk later on in the chapter and goes a little trigger-happy with a certain word that begins with the letter f. This is not a rated R story for nothing. Don't say I didn't give you a fair warning. Enjoy.  
  
  
  
CHAPTER TWELVE  
  
The zephyr spliced through the insufferably humid twilight sky. It danced across Butterfly James's face, causing her to raise her head. It caressed her hair, throwing her moonbeam waves behind her like a fluttering cape. And as soon as it had arrived, it was gone.  
  
Butterfly James elicited a minute, sorrowful sigh.  
  
She readjusted so that her elbows were on the cool black railing, resting her weight on it. Her gaze fell to the scene above, below her from the Brooklyn Bridge. The sky was smeared with too many colors, colors only to be seen in an artist's palette. The calm waters reflected the image, making the whole scene to resemble a seamless flood of vibrant, brilliant colors.  
  
Along came another wind and another sigh.  
  
She turned, twisting her torso, allowing her gaze to pick up in the faltering darkness the bowed structure of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. It stood, like an ancient presence dotted with tiny flickers of fireflies, the lights ablaze in the lodging house spilling through the cobwebbed windows.  
  
She cocked her head. And inside that light flooded presence was a warped bunk, neatly made, awaiting her.  
  
Gingerly, Butterfly felt in her pockets, finally pulling out a cheap cigar. She had stolen it from Racetrack. She shrugged.  
  
He won't miss it, she thought as she also fished out a match, picking up her left leg and striking the match off her weatherworn shoe. Cupping her hand around the cigar, she raised the other, lighting it. The tip of the cigar erupted into vivid sparks of red as she threw the match down, snubbing it with the ball of her foot, inhaling.  
  
She felt the smoke slither down her trachea, filling her lungs. This time she didn't cough. Instead, she did like Racetrack had told her to do: blow, blow like your blowing in someone's ear. Rounding her lips and releasing her breath, she watched as a perfect circle of hazy smoke lazily drifted into the air, before disintegrating.  
  
A smug smile spread across her lips. If only old Col could see her now. Butterfly let the corners of her mouth fall, leaning her weight on the railing more, cigar clenched between teeth, dangling fitfully.  
  
It only he could see her now. Yet, how the hell was that possible? She was in Brooklyn. He was in.Manhattan.  
  
An unexpected choke came from her throat and she felt the first sensation of burning tears. Why was she getting so worked up over him? He was only some goddamn newsie.only a newsie. She had broken the hearts of plenty of them, and always had gotten sweet satisfaction from it. But, now it hurt. It was difficult being on the other end of the spectrum, and having your heart shattering.  
  
The light wind came about again, causing some of the ashes to fall on to the railing. Butterfly gazed down, staring intently at them. What the hell was she doing in Brooklyn, damn Brooklyn of all places in the entire earth? Well, for one thing, she knew that Rylie Lyner wanted her exterminated-- now. Perhaps she had been overreacting when she saw the newspaper (so ironic, isn't is? she thought bitterly. Having a rush of lust by being seduced by him, silent promises of things to come lingering in the steamy air and you find THAT goddamn particular newspaper under his pillow.) But the reference to Queens and the girl's resemblance to her had been too much not to take to heed. How Lyner had found out she had been in Manhattan was beyond her.  
  
Well, instead of staying low you were out and about in every place known to the public with HIM, just teasing it right the hell up like a pair of lovesick lunatics. You should have stayed in the damn Dump of Refuge.  
  
Butterfly snorted, flicking the cigar stub off the bridge and into the glimmering waters below.  
  
No, after you talked to Skiddy that first time you should have got right the hell out of New York to play it safe. Perhaps out of the United States.  
  
She sighed. She knew the reason that she didn't leave New York, and it hit her heart like a heavy pile of bricks.  
  
You love Queens too much, the memories of Queens and Jimmy too much, just to run away like a dog with its tail between its legs. You thought, and still think, that somehow, just somehow some glorious miracle is going to happen and the Lyners will be conquested and fall, once and fucking for all.  
  
Butterfly stifled a sob, pushing the back of her palm to her mouth. Hot tears made the brilliant colors a glittery blur. She missed Queens. She missed Jimmy. She missed Skiddy. She missed that damn Racetrack Higgins. She hated being on the run, being in a place of playboys and drunken parties and poker and scarlet girls. She hated being in Brooklyn. Why she had come here was beyond her. It was the first place that her feet had carried her, and she doubted that if she hadn't been semi-paying attention to her surrounding the night she and Racetrack had come to Spot Conlon's poker party that she wouldn't have come here at all.  
  
She had arrived here only a little shy of twenty-four hours ago, and yet she missed Manhattan. Those damn newsies in the morning and those damn newsies in the evening and that goddamn Racetrack Higgins all the time.  
  
She shut her eyes, hunched over the railing, her elbows still resting upon it, and let the tears rush forth. She didn't resist the convulsions or the broken sobs. She bent forward, resting her forehead on the railing, perching her palms in her flaxen hair, and bending her right knee, placing her weight on the latter.  
  
How long she stood there weeping was beyond her. Yet, it was when she heard the faint, concerned murmurs that she quieted and raised her head up, finding that night had fallen and the cold stars were out. A newsie with a bright shock of red hair and crimson lipstick smothered over his freckled face had his arms around a girl with a glossy auburn mane. They stood, gazes draped over her, concern rearranged on their features.  
  
Butterfly straightened, smoothing her collar shirt that was tied at the abdomen. A solitary choke arose from her throat before she placed her hands in front of her, sheepish and forced smile on her lips. "It's okay.I'm okay."  
  
"Are you sure?" the girl asked in a sweet New York accent.  
  
Butterfly nodded, running a hand through her hair, moving away from the railing and the couple and towards the lodging house. "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure."  
  
The girl nodded and smiled.  
  
Butterfly returned an image of the smile, yet void of emotion. She turned, beginning the motion with her head, and began to stride towards the lodging house. The sound of the couple's passionate kisses and the redhead's soft moans filled her ears. She tried to block the sounds and the tears, for they conjured the painful mental pictures of Racetrack's and her embraces.  
  
Involuntarily, she placed a finger to her lips, trying to remember every sound, every taste, every smell. Her eyes closed and a soft smile crept up her lips as she remembered, euphoria pulsating throughout every fiber in her body.  
  
She was about to elicit a soft noise when a sharp growl filled her ears, dashing the sensations.  
  
"Hey, watch where da hell ya goin'!"  
  
She emitted a gasp, her eyes immediately fluttering open. She stood at the bottom step of the entrance of the lodging house. A thuggish newsie was giving her the evil eye, a drunken blonde tittering uncontrollably, slung over his broad shoulder. Butterfly sidestepped him, moving out of his path, placing her hands in front of her. The newsie snorted and the blonde hiccoughed through her hysterics as he trudged his way down the steps.  
  
Butterfly's breath was released as a whoosh. Her gaze then fell to the lodging house.  
  
My, my, my, good old Mr. Conlon must be having one HELL of a social get together tonight.  
  
More like intoxicated orgy. Butterfly had to tip toe up the steps just to reach the porch, due to the impossible positions the wasted couples were able to contort to in their displays of affection. The hoards of girls on the porch just reassured Butterfly's notions that this poker party was much, much diverse than the one she had attended before. This one was in the category of sex, please.  
  
Butterfly's gaze was so focused on one audacious couple in a chair on the bright porch that she was almost knocked over do to a young man's convulsions of ecstasy in the doorway. She let out an oath and a cry. Enough was enough. All she wanted was her ratty bunk.  
  
Jaw set and temper visibly rising, she roughly pushed her way past the drunken party goers, dodged the ones draped on the stairs to the second floor, and angrily strode down the hallway, splintered boards whining and creaking under her weight, until she reached the little green door which marked Spot Conlon's room. When she had arrived here last night in hysterics, Spot had been drunk out of his mind yet had made the oh-so-wise decision that the bunkroom with all the other guys would be too rough on Butterfly, so she could shack up with him.  
  
She shuttered and rolled her eyes. He most likely thought that they would be sharing the SAME bunk, yet Butterfly made it visibly clear last night that she intended not to enter any form of relations with him when she had sat crouched on the top bunk, throwing paraphernalia at him when he tried on numerous attempts to slither up the bunk.  
  
With a screech, the knob turned and Butterfly pushed her weight against the door. Light from the bright hallway flooded the room, as she was not quite paying attention to the surroundings.  
  
"SHUT DA DAMN DOOR! SHUT DA DAMN DOOR!"  
  
She heard the bellows just as she had slid off her right shoe with her left heel. She jumped and let out an ear-shattering scream and stumbled back. Still breathing heavily with utter surprise, she allowed her gaze to narrow and fall on the two figures in the bed.  
  
The white light bathed on the nude figures of Spot Conlon and Anytime Annie Murphy. Spot was arched over Annie, the moth-eaten, twisted sheets covering his lower section. They both shared in wide eyes and gaping mouths as they sat up, Annie fumbling to pull the covers over her exposed flesh. Spot's blue eyes shimmered in disbelief, his brown hair sticking up at all ends, his entire body smattered with the same shade of fire engine red lipstick that had once adored Anytime's lips.  
  
Butterfly's disbelieving eyes immediately fell to Annie. Annie. Racetrack's girl. And here she was in Spot Conlon's bed.  
  
If it walks like a slut and talks like a slut and dresses like a slut then it probably is a slut reverberated through her brain.  
  
Her eyes suddenly narrowed and glimmered and her cheeks turned a wonderful stain of crimson to match Annie's mussed spirals. She felt her firsts clench at her sides and her jaw set.  
  
Spot still stared at her with comical disbelief. "Housefly, shut da goddamn door!"  
  
Annie, wearing a mask of surprise, sharply turned her head to face Spot. "You know her?" she shrilly asked.  
  
Spot's gaze flickered between both girls. "Yeah.no.she's stayin' here."  
  
Annie's eyebrows exaggeratedly arched as she pulled away from Spot. "Stayin' here? Stayin' here? Why da hell is she stayin' here?"  
  
Spot simply stammered in reply and Annie emitted a frustrated snort, turning her angry glare to Butterfly. "You are stayin' here?"  
  
Butterfly saw red and saw Annie Murphy. And saw the glorious mental picture of stalking over to the bunk, grabbing the damn girl by the hair and beating the living daylights out of her. Instead, Butterfly centered her weight, narrowed her eyes, and cocked her head. "Why are you stayin' here?" she growled in a low rumble.  
  
Annie's eyes turned to slits as she started to arise from the bed, and suddenly, it seemed as though an emotion washed through her. Her features rearranged so her green eyes grew huge, her mouth gaped, and she moaned, "Oh no!"  
  
"What?" Spot barked, tugging more covers away from Annie.  
  
Anytime absentmindedly shook her head, staring blankly at the floor. She then connected gazes with Butterfly. "I.I know her. She knows Racetrack."  
  
Apparently, Spot didn't share in the same reaction as Annie. Smugness lit up his face as he reclined back in the bed.  
  
Butterfly allowed her gaze to wander to Spot and see his chauvinistic features, and she cast a disgusted look to him. "Impossible," she breathlessly whispered.  
  
Annie, sitting on the edge of the bunk, head dangling between her legs, suddenly snapped her neck up, jade eyes glittering and spirals bouncing. "What's impossible?" she retorted in a semi-snarl.  
  
Butterfly dropped her jaw in incredulity. "This!" she hissed, motioning to the illicit scene of Annie and Spot.  
  
Anytime raised a perfectly arched brow. "This?" she asked in a low voice, straightening slowly. "This?" Her features were a mixture of anger and smugness. "This is impossible? What about you and Race? I saw da way you were lookin' at him with those lovesick little eyes, stupid little bitch."  
  
"-slut!" Butterfly hissed in unison with Annie.  
  
Both females shot hateful daggers with their set glares as Spot listlessly watched.  
  
Annie was first to speak. "Oh, no? Den why are ya getting so woiked up about me and Spot?"  
  
Butterfly felt as though a rug had been pulled from under feet, as though she had been punched in the stomach. She had been caught off guard. What was wrong with this scene? Annie was with Race. But Annie was sleeping with Spot. Annie was of course being a little whore, but couldn't Butterfly be called a hypocrite? Racetrack was not hers, he was technically with Annie. Yet, he had embraced Butterfly.wasn't he deceiving Annie with her?  
  
Butterfly suddenly felt dirty. Was I acting like his little mistress? No. She shook the notion from her head.  
  
Annie Murphy is the whore, not you. She does not love Spot, but you and Race.  
  
Her jade and sapphire eyes narrowed as she felt her cheeks flame up. "Why am I getting' woiked up? Because Racetrack Higgins is my friend and he is goin' with a goddamn whore! That's why, you bitch!"  
  
In another situation, it would have been very comical the way Annie Murphy's face twisted in impossible anger and her face deepened to accent her scarlet curls. With a scream and an oath, she was off the bed, her bare body slamming Butterfly breathlessly into the doorframe, her hands clutching the latter's neck.  
  
Annie elicited shrill curses and Butterfly wheezed, gasping for air. Spot seemed to have come out of his drunken stupor for a moment, for he pushed off the bunk and dashed over to the pair, bellowing and desperately trying to push them apart.  
  
"Annie, Annie, STOP IT!" he hollered, releasing Butterfly from the grasp, pushing hard on Annie, causing her to fall with a thud on the splintered floor.  
  
Butterfly stumbled backwards, grasping her red throat, vacuuming in the glorious air. Spot's gaze flickered between them both before his glare fell to Annie. Anytime's eyes were narrowed into slits, her cheeks highlighted with maroon, her heavy breathing causing her bare flesh to shudder.  
  
"What da-hic--HELL was-hic--dat 'bout?"  
  
A unison gasp permeated the room as all three jumped, quickly averting their eyes to the door.  
  
The newsie Butterfly recognized from the chair on the porch was stumbling about in the doorway with a daft smile on his lips, his arms around a hysterical with laughter blonde. Oh, the tittering blonde.  
  
Spot suddenly realized his nudity, and quickly placed his hands in strategic places. "Whitie!" he hissed. "What da hell are you doin' here?"  
  
Whitie stumbled back, the light catching the glitter-shot whisky bottle he held in his hand, almost falling backwards, causing the blonde to snicker even more. "Well-hic-me and--what's-hic-ya name?"  
  
The blonde doubled over in drunken laughter. "Charley!"  
  
"Oh, right-hic! Barley."  
  
"Charley!"  
  
"Parley."  
  
The blonde was on her knees, hysterical and blinded by tears. "Charley!"  
  
Whitie's glazed-over eyes fell to Spot, wearing the same stupid smile. He held Charley loosely by the arm as she fell into convulsions over the mere trifle on the ground. "Charley-hic-and me were getting-hic-to know each odduh in da oddah-hic-what was it, Charley?"  
  
"Da room?" Charley howled.  
  
"RIGHT!" Whitie cried, nearly stumbling over Charley. "Well-hic-What's-er- Name and me were-hic-getting to know each odduh in da room when we heard- hic-a, what's it called?"  
  
"Noise?" the blonde replied.  
  
"YEAH! NOISE! And I didn't know what it was-hic-an', an' What's-er-Name didn't know eithah, so we thought we'd come see what'smatter."  
  
For some odd reason, a reason that remained illusive from all others in the room, Whitie and his blonde Charley found this so hysterical that he fell to his knees beside her, dropping the whisky bottle, causing it to shatter into a thousand shards on the floor. Their intoxicated, high pitched titters arose even more due to this, and Whitie crawled over to the shards, wheezing and with tears in his eyes, picking up the shards, letting them sift through his fingers. Charley's laughter came out shrill and Whitie joined in with deep honks.  
  
In less than thirty seconds they were passed out stone cold in the doorway.  
  
Spot furrowed his brow and uttered a disgusted sigh, striding over to the doorway, nudging Whitie's limp arm out of the doorway, slamming the door. He turned around, his eyes glinting, as he stooped down, reaching for his trousers that had been previously flung carelessly on the floor in a fit of drunken passion.  
  
"Now, what da HELL was all dat about?" he snapped, gaze slowly flickering between the two.  
  
Butterfly cast her eyes to Annie, unhappily sprawled on the ground and about to open her mouth when Butterfly turned to Spot, uttering the first thing that came to thought, anything just to get in words before that slut.  
  
"Itsnotrightdayafuckinyabestfriendsgoil."  
  
Incredibly, both Annie and Spot shared in the same expression: both dropped their jaws and heated to a delicious shade of crimson only because it was their natural reaction to something said so bluntly, so poignantly. Yet, it was when Spot began to stammer that Annie erupted into a terrible sigh of repulsion.  
  
Both turned to her to witness her shaking her head, her glinting spirals bouncing about, awkwardly arising from the floor. It was only Annie's abrupt huffs that filled the air as she went about, scooping up her strewn articles of clothing, hurriedly redressing herself. When the last chartreuse stiletto had been placed on its rightful foot, she strutted over to first Spot to call him a wonderful string of oaths and then she halted in front of Butterfly, jade eyes glowering.  
  
"Honey, you may think ya cute, playin' all dese little games and thinkin' dat ya so goddamn innocent. Sure, I may be fucking Spot and sure you may call me a slut. But I am still Racetrack Higgins's goil. And ya not. Play innocent all ya want, but I see it in ya eyes. Crazy for 'im, ya are. Ya jealous out of you mind ovah me. Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?"  
  
And with that, Anytime Annie Murphy brushed past Butterfly, disappearing in a flurry of bouncing hair and intoxicating lavender perfume.  
  
Butterfly listened to the erratic clicking of the heels down the shrieking floorboards of the hallway, listened until they disappeared.  
  
And then she felt the atrocious lump manifest itself in her throat and the hot, acidly tears start to form in the creases of her eyes and Annie's words echoed through her head:  
  
Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?  
  
The words were like a dagger through her heart and the tears and convulsions and sobs came back yet again. She stumbled about near the doorway, nearly tripping over the bodies of Whitie and the blonde, when Spot let out a cry and came behind her, catching her under the arms.  
  
"Whoa!" he said softly, awkwardly, as though trying to console her.  
  
Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?  
  
The tears came harder and the sobs louder and more broken, her straw- colored hair falling in front of her face.  
  
She felt Spots hand on her shoulder as he guided her, pushing her down on the bunk. She involuntarily complied, propping her elbows on her thighs and burying her tear-stained face in her hands.  
  
Spot's words managed to find their way to her through the timbre of the audible hysterics.  
  
"Are ya cryin' ovah what Annie said? Dat ya a slut foah likin' Race?"  
  
And then a remarkable thing occurred. Butterfly James's mind cleared for a moment, as she realized that at this very minute she would gladly release any of the deepest, darkest secrets hiding under lock and key in the abyss of her heart, rather than come out and blatantly reveal her feelings about Racetrack Higgins, just proving Annie Murphy all the more right.  
  
So, instead, she said, "If you were Sarah Sprites and Rylie Lynah wanted you dead, you'd been in damn hysterics, too!"  
  
Butterfly didn't realize the extent of what she had uttered until the silence in the room seemed to be prolonged for what seemed like years. She spread he fingers and glanced at Spot, her heart immediately spotting and her breathing bating.  
  
He stared at her, polar blue eyes wide and unblinking, face cadaver-like in the shade of off-white it took on, mouth burnt open and jaw dropped.  
  
"What?" she cried, her sobs dying.  
  
Spot Conlon only retained his look of shock.  
  
"What?" she shrieked, throwing her hands to her sides. What had she said?  
  
Animation found him again as his large eyes blinked and opened and his mouth closed. "Sarah Sprites," he murmured as though not believing his words. "You said dat you were Sarah Sprites."  
  
And Butterfly froze. Her blood chilled, her pulse grew paralysed, and her breathing was murdered.  
  
Sarah Sprites. He said Sarah Sprites. You said Sarah Sprites. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY? her mind screamed.  
  
"What did I say?" she numbly asked.  
  
As though, like an animal that had been spooked by some unknown assailant, Spot Conlon jumped, jumped off the chair that he rode backwards, knocking it to the ground with a clatter. Disbelief and anger dominated his face. "Whoa, you'se Sarah Sprites?"  
  
Butterfly stared up at him, unable to respond for the life of her.  
  
"Sarah Sprites.Jimmy Sprites's sistah?"  
  
When she didn't reply, he grabbed her wrists, causing her to jump. "Are you Sarah Sprites? Jimmy Sprites's sistah?"  
  
Without anything else to say, Butterfly cast her gaze to his feet, reluctantly murmuring, "Yes."  
  
She felt him drop her wrists as they fell limp to her sides.  
  
"Sarah Sprites. Sarah Sprites. Sarah fucking Sprites. Jesus, I can't believe it's you." he stopped pacing. "Do ya know dat Rylie Lynah is lookin' foah ya? Wants ya dead!"  
  
Butterfly felt a suddenly overwhelming wave of hate, and anger, and sadness as she felt the ball of fury start to well in her stomach. And it burst just like a balloon overfilled with helium. "YOU DON'T UNDAHSTAND!" she screeched, leaping off the bunk, the tears coming again.  
  
Spot stepped back, clearly surprised by her reaction.  
  
"You don't undahstand! No one undahstands! Don't you t'ink dat I know Rylie Lyner is lookin' foah me? The sonofabitch ruined my life! Demolished it! He took away da only thing that I evah loved in the woild-me bruddah!" The sheer abundance of tears was making the outline of Spot hazy now. "I was on the streets, in da House of Refuge. I nevah thought dat life could git any worse than dat.den I hear he has a bounty on my head." A high-pitched laugh permeated the thick air. "A bounty? And I should hide. What was I gonna do? Hide? Where da hell would a goil hide? WHERE? Where." her bellows subsided as emotion flooded over her, causing her to sink to the floor in absolute sobs.  
  
The splintered boards creaked under his weight as Spot joined her. "When ya came here--if I'da knew dat ya were Jimmy's sistah-- If I'da knew--"  
  
Butterfly's weeps were too intense to allow a reply. "Jimmy was good. Jimmy was damn good, Sarah," Spot said softly.  
  
With that, Butterfly leaned over, her forehead touching the rough floor. Great, fantastic emotions and memories coursed through her entire being, they were too immense, just too fantastic. He had called her Sarah.  
  
****** Racetrack Higgins felt his throat recoil, constrict. It felt, as though is whole body were on fire.  
  
A soft groan resonated from beside him, as Annie Murphy pressed her perspiration-slicked body next to his, allowing him to inhale the musky scent of her skin.  
  
He felt her mouth next to his ear, her hot breath enter his canal. "Oh, Race, why didn't we do dat befoah?" Her voice was husky as she ran a finger down his chest. Race felt a shiver tango its way down his spine.  
  
When he didn't reply, he felt her take his chin roughly in her hand and press her lips to her mouth. He tasted the sex on her breath, but not his. No, someone else's.  
  
She pulled away, slowly, causing a puckering sound to occur. He felt her lush lips on his neck, on his shoulders, on his chest, on his thighs.  
  
"Tell me the story, again."  
  
Annie abruptly stopped, raising her head. "What?" she asked, throwing her crimson hair out of her face.  
  
"The story," he replied automatically, casting his eyes from the cracked ceiling to her.  
  
Irritation seemed to fill the smooth creases of her face, but a half-smile came to her full, red lips as she slithered her way back up the bed, her elbows on either side of Racetrack.  
  
"Oh, baby," she pouted, her lips finding his flesh, "why do ya want to here dat stupid 'iddle story again."  
  
"Tell it," he growled, causing Annie's head to jerk up, her spirals bouncing with the after shock.  
  
"Alright," she sighed. "As I said befoah I was ovah in Brooklyn meetin' some of me goilfriends, and I see dat Spot is havin' a pahty and I go inside to say hello. Ain't nowhere to be seen, I so check his room. Open the door and whaddya know, going away wit some blonde. I gasp and they look up, and whaddya know--"she lowered her voice and whispered into his ear in sultry satisfaction. "it's ya liddle friend from da odduh day undah him, what's her name.Buttahfly?"  
  
Her smile heightened as she felt Race shudder under her. "Buttahfly," Racetrack echoed wearily.  
  
Annie nodded. "Uh-huh. Dat's da one." She emitted an exaggerated sigh. "Can't imagin' what she was doin' in Brooklyn, but what d'ya know!" Her laughter was light like a tinkling bell. "Spot's been laid by nearly lady in New Yawk. Go figyah."  
  
Racetrack was so utterly numb with disbelief that he allowed Annie's lips to return to his sweat-covered flesh. It was only she sighed, sat up, and said something in the context of, "Wow, Race, I still can't believe dat we nevah did dis befoah. Course, we WILL be doin' it again." that he acknowledged her presence and mumbled a reply.  
  
The bunk creaked under her weight as she arose and then collected her garments from the floor. In a matter of minutes, she was dressed. She bent over him, pressing her lips to his, plunging her tongue into his mouth, before she pulled away. A smile sinister in nature under the skin was on her face. "Bye, baby."  
  
Racetrack had sat up and hurriedly was groping for the whiskey flask on the bedside table even before the clicking of Annie's chartreuse stilettos had disappeared.  
  
****** Amazingly, it felt as though an incredible weight had been lifted.  
  
Butterfly James sat with her head resting against the scraped wooden frame of Spot's bunk, her knees bent. He sat in the old wooden chair, straddling it backwards, chin cradled in hand.  
  
The only sound was their rhythmic breathing. The atmosphere had long since quieted down, ever since fed up citizens had called the boys citing noise disruption. The boys were sent to bed and the girls were sent off.  
  
"Sarah?"  
  
Butterfly twitched as though a current of electricity had been send through her body. She was not used by being called by that name.  
  
"Yes?" she replied, her eyes falling to him.  
  
A thoughtful look adorned his face. "Why does Rylie want ya dead now? I mean, if he wanted ya dead, he could have killed ya in that two years befoah he placed da bounty on ya head. If he really wanted ya dead, he would have jumped in da rivah aftah ya--"  
  
Butterfly snorted. "Beats me. Skiddy Sniper found me aftah I had been in da House of Refuge and said dat all da guys were revolting, ya know, tryin' to separate da Sprites newsies from da Lynah newsies again. Woid is dat Rylie was gettin' scared because he knew dat dey had da will-powah, dat dey would break away. I think dat he figyaed dat if he killed off Jimmy''s sistah, dat dat would send some kind of.I don't know.shock through 'em and make 'em stop." She sighed. "I haven't hoid anything about Queens in a few weeks." Spot only uttered a thoughtful sound before he averted his eyes to the ground and silence one again filled the room. After a few moments, he made a noise as though he wanted to continue the palaver and Butterfly looked up, but he stopped, as they both heard what like faint cries from coming outside.  
  
Their eyes connected. The yells got closer and clearer. They could both make out one word: Butterfly.  
  
Butterfly pushed off from the ground and Spot arose from the chair, as the former carefully strode through the door, through the whining hallway, and down the dying steps.  
  
Her inferences were correct. She could hear her name being called.  
  
Butterfly's eyes narrowed in curiosity and her heels picked up as she reached the foyer. Though a wall barricaded her from the anonymous person, she could articulate the bellows perfectly.  
  
"Buttahfly! Buttahfly! Buttahfly James! I fucked Annie! I fucked er hahd and long!"  
  
Butterfly felt her stomach drop. "Oh, God!" she hissed in a low voice, running the rest of the distance, and quickly tugging open the door to the lodging house.  
  
Her intuition had been correct. "Oh, God," she cried softly, the humid night air soaking into her skin.  
  
Racetrack Higgins was stumbling about in front of the lodging house adorned in only trousers, the suspenders hanging down his sides and a whisky flask clasp loosely in his hand, glittering in the moonlight.  
  
She felt the pangs and felt the tears and felt the overwhelming emotions. She desperately desired to run down there and be in his embrace and smother him with kisses.  
  
Yet, something held her back, shaking in the doorway of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
"Can! While you were fucking good ole Spotty boy, I was fucking Annie! How bout dat?"  
  
She shook her head, trying to banish the hateful sounds. Yet, she only felt her heart being ripped out of her chest. And she forced herself to reply.  
  
"What do you want, Racetrack?"  
  
Racetrack threw his arms back in the white moonlight. "What do I want? A nice fuck, dat's what!"  
  
Butterfly couldn't deny the tears that found their way down her cheeks. "This isn't you, Race. This isn't you. It's the alcohol," she whispered. "Go away," she called, as steadily as her voice would allow her.  
  
Race wore an expression of mock shock. "Go 'way? Go 'way? Go where? Okay, I go 'way. Jist wanted to tell ya, Canny, dat I fucked Annie. Yup. I did."  
  
Butterfly knew that she was being gutted alive. "GO AWAY, RACETRACK!" she shrieked through the marvelous sobs, slamming the door with a shudder, and falling against it.  
  
The convulsions ravaged her body and she nearly collapsed. Her eyes fluttered open.  
  
Spot was standing in front of her, a solemn, sad look on his face.  
  
Dying inside, Butterfly sobbed and ran, crashing into Spot, relishing in the warmth of his flesh. She didn't give a damn as he pulled her close, as his mouth pressed against hers. She relished in the fever and the taste.  
  
A faint moan escaped her lips as she felt his fingers caress through her hair. The exchange grew deeper as she twisted her appendages about Spot. Her sobs and sounds of pleasure combined gloriously as he lead her blindly into the parlor, where they fell over armrest of a threadbare couch.  
  
Spot's knee pressed into Butterfly's abdomen as she feverishly rid him of his suspenders.  
  
She cried out when he thrust his tongue in her mouth, and as he undid the knot of fabric at her abdomen.  
  
Oh, God, Race.what about Race? Butterfly's mind cried.  
  
Spot's kisses became harder.  
  
She remembered reading in a hocked dictionary once about a word she was trying to think of. It fit her do correctly at the moment.  
  
Spot was freeing of her of the hindrance called suspenders, his salty lips pressing more passionately into hers.  
  
What was that damn word?  
  
Spot was unbuttoning the uppermost buttons of her collar shirt.  
  
It finally occurred to Butterfly.  
  
Oh, fickle. 


End file.
